She pulled my head down to her and kissed me on the lips. Her tongue probed gently at first then darted inside with the fury of a woman in need. My mouth came alive. I pressed my fingers into her and watched her soften. Her mouth opened slightly as though she might cry out and she pulled me close again and we kissed.
I felt her moisten and I drove my fingers more swiftly. She groaned and undulated under me. Her thighs quivered and she shot her legs up and out as her passion grew. With my free hand I undid her bra and let her breasts fall loose. They cascaded out of their white confines. I lashed at her nipples with my tongue, biting and sucking until I felt her body raging under me ... She gasped and bucked her frenzy against my strong fingers. I held onto her until it was over.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 - Come Visit the Jail!
CHAPTER 2 - An Ordinary Childhood
CHAPTER 3 - My First Client
CHAPTER 4 - The Learning Days
CHAPTER 5 - More Lessons
CHAPTER 6 - Las Vegas
CHAPTER 7 - Leaving Vegas
CHAPTER 8 - The Big Time
CHAPTER 9 - Another Day, Another $100
CHAPTER 10 - The Bust
CHAPTER 11 - The Tourists' Tour
CHAPTER 12 - Love That Pain
CHAPTER 13 - Girls at Play
CHAPTER 14 - Crazy Sex
CHAPTER 15 - Reminiscing
CHAPTER 1
Come Visit the Jail!
"MARILYN, WHEN YOU WERE SCREWING THAT BIG loan shark in that Federal Hudson, New Jersey jail a few years ago, did you use his cell or a regular room?" Joyce asked me.
"I used a regular room that had all the comforts. Man, that dude had a refrigerator, a table with a pitcher of ice water, a bottle of champagne and a color television. His bed was plusher than mine at home."
"How did you get in?"
"Just walked in. Konigsberg, the loan shark, had all the keys himself. They were all hanging from his belt buckle. He greeted me at the front door at eight o'clock at night and led me right in."
"The papers said he was, quote, 'king of the loan sharks,' and had more money than any shark in New York City; but his pictures show him a fat slob. Even Warden McFarland was played up as a grafter."
"Yes, Konigsberg had a thick wad of bills on him and made sure I saw them. And he was a four-hundred-pound slob. As for the warden, he was found guilty of accepting money for mighty unusual favors."
"Didn't you have a case similar to this one when you were in L. A.?"
"Yes and I had Grant Cooper as my lawyer. He beat the case for me, too. He had the Finch case about a year before this. That was the case where Carole Tregoff and her doctor-lover murdered his wife. Matter of fact, I used to date Mr. Tregoff. He had a bar in Pasadena."
"You really get around, kid. And now Cooper is doing the Sirhan Sirhan case on the killing of Robert Kennedy. He is one of the best lawyers in America. You beat that case and you beat this New Jersey case. You were very lucky, Marilyn."
"I should have beat them both because there was not a shred of evidence in either case; and they produced phony witnesses in the last Federal case."
"Explain to me exactly what happened," Paulie said. "I never did hear this fantastic way-out tale completely. I only heard Joyce tell a few brief incidents. I know you made headlines and television for weeks."
"Well, my friend, who was a clerk in a lawyer's office, introduced me to this Konigsberg in jail. After the introduction, he split. I stayed about an hour. Then he picked me up on the front steps of the jail. We went home to Manhattan after we left the Federal jail.
"The next thing I hear is six months later when I'm living with my girl friend on Seventy-sixth Street and Lexington. The Feds are at her door asking for me. I hurry and call my lawyer and he says 'Don't let them in'-he says to tell them to call his number. I then write the number on a piece of paper and slip it under the door. But my girl friend, being the stand-up broad she is, let them in and they started asking questions about the clerk in my lawyer's office. They asked me if he had driven me across the state line to Jersey to screw this Konigsberg. I said I didn't know what the hell they were talking about.
"Finally they left me with a subpoena to appear in court a few days later for a hearing.
"Although she was a cripple in a wheel chair, Frances Kahn was one of the best lawyers in the City. She told me they wire-tapped a conversation between her clerk and a friend of his and that's how they got my name. I still don't know if that's true, but they did get me. At the time, I was almost angry enough to give this clerk up, too, because, I had laid him the week before and he had given me twenty dollars instead of twenty-five. Nothing used to make me angrier than somebody trying to give a dollar less than twenty-five because I never took less than twenty-five at that time, remember? I trusted him to give me the money after we went to bed instead of before, when I should have known better. You both know the first rule of the Life is to get your money first even from a hundred-dollar John. But I learned that a lot of clients will leave or become very angry if they have to give money beforehand when they are giving fifty dollars or more. They figure it's too commercial. Anyway, you known damn well I wouldn't rat out anybody to the fuzz; even my most bitter enemy.
"Because of this incident, my girl friend Lee said I had to leave her pad. Two weeks after I get a new pad on Ninety-sixth and Lexington, the Feds come in with a material witness, hold on me. My bail was ten thousand dollars. I couldn't raise it at the time, so a week later my friend bailed me out at five thousand, to which it had been reduced.
"The Feds kept asking me about the warden. How well did I know him? Was it true that anyone with money got girls, special food, telephone calls and other privileges? If I testified against either the warden or my clerk friend I wouldn't have to do the five-year stretch I was facing for perjury.
"A month later when I went on trial, the prosecution produced my girl friend Lee and two professional witnesses against me. These men were from the Jersey jail and had testified many times before in cases in order to reduce their own sentences. One guy was a Wop and the other was a Jew. Both were in their forties. Needless to say, I'd never seen the slobs in my life.
"Well, the judge was a sweetheart. 'I can see that you were angry about being bothered by the Federal agent and therefore you have an ulterior motive behind your testimony,' he said to Lee; 'and as for these two men, I don't believe they have ever laid eyes on Marilyn before now. Case dismissed.' Warden McFarland got a six-month suspended sentence and even Frances Kahn got two and one half years on a trumped-up bribery charge, six months later. They say she had her clerk friend Izzy try to bribe a Guinea dope peddler into not finking out his big connect. Personally, I don't believe she did it and she tells me she didn't. They'd been trying to nail her for a long time on any charge they could dream up. Why they wanted her so badly, I don't know. But, when she got mixed up with this Mafia client, the fuzz were delirious with happiness.
Sure, that was groovy, beating the case. But in the meantime, the publicity had killed my fantastic business. Nothing could have hurt me more. The Feds actually looked up the number on my telephone bill and went to the office where my clients worked and tried to intimidate them. I see nothing they could have gained by that, so it must have been a personal vendetta."
"Man, how did you get started in the Life anyway?" Paulie asked.
"I can remember it, as that well-worn but adequate clich� states, as if it happened yesterday. The only difference is it seems like a million years ago."
CHAPTER 2
An Ordinary Childhood
I lived with various friends of my mother's most of my life. Since my parents were divorced a year after I was born, I lived with more people than I can count. But when I was six years old, my old lady kept me with her in a furnished room. She worked in a laundry, making twenty-five dollars a week. In 1952 she was still working for twenty-five dollars a week when they closed the last of the hand laundries. Then she worked as a cookie packer in a factory at sixty-five a week. Last I heard, she was still working there, but it's been more than ten years since I've heard from her or about her. I guess you've already gathered that we didn't get along well. Actually, now I do rather feel sorry for her because she did try to keep me with her for a while and I'm sure it couldn't have been easy on her with the wages she made. Plus, she had no life of her own regarding men because of me. Lucky for her she was a frigid woman, under these circumstances. Occasionally, she'd come home drunk and whip me with a wire hair brush, but she didn't do this often.
She had one great burning drive and that was to move. She used to move from one furnished room to another every two or three months. She'd always find something unbearably wrong with the pad. I was forced to go to a great many schools. In the fourth grade alone I went to four schools. I went to twenty-four schools in all. That includes high school and college, too. You would think that changing schools so often would make me a poor student wouldn't you? But I was always the smartest kid in all my classes. I really think moving around had a lot to do with it because I was able to learn different things all the time. I even got a scholarship to Mount Carmel High School, as well as Loretta Heights Catholic College.
When I was seven, after much pleading, my mother allowed me to live with her. She set the alarm for me to get up for school, as she left before I was awake. I didn't comb my hair correctly and I dressed haphazardly. Although I would almost pass out by lunch period, I never remembered to eat breakfast. I could have dumped dry cereal into a bowl of milk, but I never did. I still don't know why I never connected the dizziness with hunger. I seldom had anything for lunch. My mother would say "Tell the nun you forgot your lunch." I hated to do this because it sounded phony when I used it more than once or twice a week. But the stupid nun should have realized I didn't have any food; she should have given me some. Instead, she always handed me a banana. That's it; just a banana. Didn't she think it was strange that I told her I could read no more, as I was getting dizzy? This happened every day when she asked me to read to the class.
We lived in a roach-infested room with no refrigerator, but there was a community ice-box in the hall. As my mother worked in the laundry until 1952, we were literally starving. Every night we ate oatmeal. She couldn't cook, which makes it even harder when you have very little money for food. But on pay day, she bought a piece of meat for supper and burnt it thoroughly. I was eighteen before I realized medium-rare meat was cooked and ordered so, intentionally! She never failed to give me the larger potion of meat. I was so amazed at this that I questioned her about it. She said when you get older you'll do the same with your children. I remember thinking, "I won't like to, though."
Even kids as young as seven and eight recognize poverty and try to disassociate from it. A little girl in the second grade named Olivia was supposed to be my partner for the First Communion processional. She had a fit because she didn't want to be my partner. I had on funny shoes. Every kid had on white Sunday dress shoes. But my mother said we couldn't afford dress shoes; so I had to wear white oxfords. I cried for hours but she wouldn't change her mind. Today I think of this incident as funny and insignificant yet it must be very important to me as it's something I remember so vividly.
Another time, my girl friend, a gorgeous little blonde, wore a long kimono in playing the part of an Indian princess. She gave me an old sweater in which to be an ordinary Indian. I sobbed so loudly her mother asked me what was wrong. "I don't look like an Indian," I said. Childhood! You can have it.
In high school they said I had an I.Q. of 133. And you know that I consider myself intellectually superior to almost everybody except scientists and mathematicians. Moving around this country and other countries in South America makes me have a slight edge on other people regarding attitudes, understanding and ideas. I'm used to being Number One in brains and beauty. Modest I'm not.
Being extremely poor in high school, I had nothing to hang on to, so to speak, except my virtue; so I cherished it highly. Unfortunately, in the slums, this is not a good arrangement. In spite of unusual beauty, I seldom had a date. In my hometown of Denver, Colorado, by age fifteen, almost everybody's been laid. Farther east to the Mississippi, I understand it goes down to age thirteen.
So, because I couldn't get a date, whenever I went to a party I tried to compensate for my virginity (I wouldn't even pet!) by drinking as much liquor as the next guy. I even got a false I.D. to prove I was old enough to drink. And this was my big mistake, because I got busted with it in a bar when I was fifteen. The court took me away from my mother and gave me to my aunt in Phoenix, Arizona. She went to a fortune teller one day and the palmist told her to send me back to my mother. This, after having spent three months with her. All this time I was a very religious girl. I never missed mass on Sunday. And I guarded my cherry closely for fear of eternal hell-fire if ever anyone were to touch me immorally in any way before I married. To this day I blame the Catholic Church for fucking my mind up and making me frigid. My mother certainly helped by telling me sex was something I had to put up with in order to have kids and a home. Moreover, of all the friends and relatives I lived with, only one home came equipped with a real male husband. What Freud could make of this! And you wonder why I'm screwed up!
My aunt in Phoenix was a widow, so that was another manless home. This aunt sent me to another aunt back in Denver. This aunt was married to my father's brother. My father I saw approximately ten times in my life. He remarried, when I was five years old, a young woman who was content to let him live from her paycheck as a telephone operator.
While living with this aunt and uncle, a prophetic thing happened. I went to a party at a dance-hall and met some boys who invited my hell-bent girl friend and me to a party afterwards. As it turned out, it was held in a whorehouse in East Denver. Girls kept running through the rooms in slips and pants and nothing else. Then they busted out the pot. First time I'd ever had any, too. Next day I told my girl friend at school about it after she told me she needed some place to go because her father kicked her out into the snow. Well, the broad got busted in a hotel room three weeks later and ratted me out.
They came and got me at school and took me to Juvenile Hall. My mother came and told them to send me to reform school because I must be a madam since I still had my cherry. Because of this one incident I've hated my mother most of my life. It was only a year ago that I began to forgive her in my mind.
I spent exactly two and a half months at the Good Shepherd's Convent. I was due to spend two years there but I broke through an iron door and barred windows instead, leaving the place forthwith.
Before leaving, however, I almost managed to lose my complete mind. My dormitory companions, having no private room or cell, were forced to fuck in front of all two hundred girls. Since my medical record read "hymen intact" in the front office, I was fair game for all jokes, such as throwing apple cores to see who could hit me the hardest, etc. This, because I was unique in that I had no children whereas most girls had at least one child; and they were capable of almost anything, including murder. Arson was quite prevalent. An eleven-year-old girl used to be smuggled in from downstairs for the girls to abuse but she used to set the bed on fire as a bit of revenge.
I lost a job marking dirty shirts in the laundry because I refused to play ball with a fifty-year-old nun. Then I had to take a tougher gig of ironing clothing for seven hours a day, six days a week. Maybe I shouldn't have complained, though, because my old lady spent ten years in this same institution. And when she was there the chicks had tattoos from head to foot, not just on their breasts, legs, arms. Suicides were more rampant then, too.
After I split, I lived with a couple of female friends of my father's. Angie, a young divorcee, had a nine-year-old daughter I used to watch. Angie was the greatest broad I ever met. She never told me not to do anything. Everything I did was okay with her. She used to take me out to the bar with her at nights. She was the salt of the earth. One night when we were at the Starlight Lounge on Colfax Boulevard, I ran into a boy I had had two dates with when I was fifteen. To this day, I think he's the handsomest man I ever met. But if you think my problems are bad, well his were gruesome. He was twenty-two years old when I was fifteen. He had just divorced a girl he knocked up when they were both seventeen. And now he paid alimony to an ex and two kids. Here he was at this bar; he asked me for a date for the following evening. When he found out I still wasn't putting out, he must have considered me either a challenge or an interesting alternative to the Vegas chorus girl he'd just left.
We went steady for about six months and planned to be married. Now he felt entitled to my cherry. I was afraid of pregnancy but would use no birth control because of the Catholic Church; so he decided to leave for California until school was out and we could wed. But it was already too late, I was pregnant. Still I would not get married until I was graduated from high school.
We moved to California and he resumed the bricklaying trade. But he hated it. He hated life. He hated his first wife, whom he blamed for his having to work at manual labor. Had he not got the broad pregnant, he would have gone on to college as he wanted and planned. He says she chased him day and night and interfered with his school work.
Though we tried to make a go our marriage for five years (separating every six months), we each had too many sets of conflicting complexes. And though I still liked the guy, our problems together would always remain insurmountable, I'm sure.
Shortly after leaving him, I started college and a part-time job. One night I met a photographer who was actually legitimate. I started doing all the girlie magazines you can name. Then I made a few minor films. No, they weren't "blue" films-if they were, I'd be rich today.
One night I met a rich old Jewish fellow at a party. He told me he'd give me free rent at his plush hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. I accepted as soon as he threw the Cadillac into the deal. After I'd been there a week, he told me I could make a lot of bread by treating his friends nice.
I had to get drunk to make this scene for the first time and the next twenty times thereafter. I just kept shoving the money in the top dresser drawer. One month later I took the bread out and counted it-forty-five hundred in cash! The least I accepted was twenty-five and now I had enough to buy a new Corvette Chevy. I brought a red one and drove it to my classes at the University of Southern California every day. I got all A's at this school, just as I had at Pasadena College for the two previous years. When I wasn't hooking, I was doing homework.
Next I bought $500 worth of United States Steel stock. Then I bought a couple of diamonds and a pearl necklace, a smoky topaz dinner ring, a few expensive dresses, and finally, the services of Grant Cooper, the famous lawyer. Yes, I was busted for procuring, no less. Such a ridiculous charge. I wouldn't involve myself with a felony, nor would I send another girl to take care of a client and wind up with only part of the line. This was my first introduction to newspaper headlines. At the hearing, the judge said, "This girl is not a panderer so far as I can see. She is merely another call girl, therefore I shall dismiss the charges so far as she is concerned." The other four men were held for trial. My benefactor got a six-month suspended sentence from it. But he shouldn't have got that, because he never took so much as a penny from me. I got free rent. And after the second week in this hotel, I stopped laying him altogether. That poor man. All he got from me was grief.
Fully expecting to be held as a material witness against my benefactor, I copped an airline and got in the wind.
I registered at the Flamingo Capri and maintained a six-week residency for the sole purpose of divorce.
CHAPTER 3
My First Client
HIS NAME WAS IRVING and HE DIDN'T BELIEVE ME when I told him that I had never done this before. "Sure, baby," he said, with just the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice. He placed an envelope on the hotel dresser next to my bottle of Chivas Regal and poured himself a drink. He seemed amused that there was barely enough Scotch left to fill his glass.
"Mazeltov," he said and as he gestured with the glass his eyes took on the smooth glitter of the glass. They were large, searching eyes and they never left me.
Irving was an older man, as Carl my benefactor had promised. Carl, being a senior citizen himself, claimed that the older boys were easier to handle and on the whole were a much more generous group. That made good sense to me. So I junked my plans to street-walk with a girl friend of mine and allowed Carl to guide my career. He had been in the hotel business for over thirty years in L. A. and had enough contacts to make any good prostitute a millionaire. I was determined to become good-and very rich-in the shortest time possible.
But right now my determination was waning fast. I had no idea what Irving had in mind and worst of all I didn't know if I'd be any good at it. If he didn't like me he could squelch the whole idea with Carl. Or he might even get rough. Irving looked docile enough, but those old guys can fool you. I had a wild urge to run, hop on a bus back to Frisco and my husband and daughter, but two very important considerations kept me there-the envelope on the dresser (Carl had said Irving was good for a hundred) and the large quantity of Scotch that I had drunk. There was no logic to backing out now. I sank deeper into the well of my cushioned chair and decided to let things take their natural course.
Irving removed his clothes with the nonchalance of a man who bought women every day of the week. He folded his dark summer-weight suit over the sofa arm, patting out the creases with a deft hand and went about removing his shoes. He was short and heavy-set, the hair thinning and jet-black. I could tell that it was dyed by the purplish cast of the edges. His face was deeply lined and the nose which was peeling badly was almost comical for its length. He reminded me of pictures I had seen of Ari Onassis, except that Irving was taller.
"Classy," he said and I didn't know if the clich� referred to the suit of clothes or my thigh, which had pushed free of the kimono. I watched his eyes glance over as he stared at me and I decided that it was my body that had prompted the remark.
"Thank you," I said, my voice betraying my nervousness.
He nodded and advanced toward me.
Not knowing what to do or say next, I acted on impulse. I stood up and dropped my kimono to the floor, revealing my lean twenty-year-old assets. My bikini panties were a burst of red and fit like a second skin. I wore no bra and my full, creamy breasts contrasted dramatically with my dark tan. I slipped two fingers delicately under the panties and drew them down to my ankles. There was a rustling sound as they slipped down my legs.
Irving's tongue rode along his lips and suddenly his breath was deep and rasping. A large bulge protruded from under his shorts. He moved closer with quick bow-legged strides.
At that point I had to sit back down. I was a fool to have drunk so much Scotch. Standing up so quickly had set a hammer banging in my head and shivers of weakness were running through me. For a moment I saw two Irvings' advancing toward me, holding his rod out in front like a lance. A lecherous grin curved on his lips as his image merged back to one and then split in two again.
"Now, now," Irving said and he began to hop from one foot to the next as though the floor had suddenly become hot. My headache dulled and a wave of giddiness overtook me. Irving's image cleared again and I saw one of him, but he was so damn funny hopping up and down like that I could hardly control myself. A bubble of laughter rose in my throat. I tried to choke it back but it was no use. I threw my head back and laughed like some grade-school child. It was a terrible mistake.
I knew better. No man likes to be laughed at, ever and especially not when he wants sex. Every woman knows that, or should know it. It was the fault of the Scotch, but that was no real excuse.
It seemed a full five minutes before I had enough nerve to look up. When I did Irving was staring at me with a hurt, puppy-dog look in his eyes. I tried to apologize, but he would have none of it.
He handed me a towel from the bed. "Okay, okay," he said nervously, "now let's have some fun." His anger was gone. And so was his erection, which had shrunk to a fraction of its size.
I tried again to apologize but he waved me aside with an impatient hand and said, "I understand."
He positioned me in the chair with strong gentle hands, spreading my legs over the armrests. His eyes devoured my crotch and once again I saw them become glazed with desire.
He knelt in front of the chair and slid between my legs, His hands gripped me by the hips and he sunk his face into my bosom. After that, I was completely in his charge. I just lay back and allowed him to go on with whatever he had in mind. He attacked my nipples fiercely, circling them with his hot tongue, never touching, attempting to tease them erect. He couldn't know how near-impossible that state was for me. My nipples had only responded once before in my life and a man had nothing to do with it.
Impatiently, Irving sucked my nips with increased vigor. I clutched his head with taloned fingers and groaned until he seemed satisfied that he was giving me pleasure. It was a phony but very necessary thing to do. Nothing excites a man more than a groaning female. The fake-job is important. Three years of married life taught me that.
Irving's head dropped to my stomach and he nipped me there playfully, but cunnilingus never excited me. Most prostitutes "save" themselves this way for their boy friends only. But half the clients insist on 'Trenching" the prostitute.
Irving stood up and I nearly fainted at what I saw. He was holding a yard of cock before him in both hands like a baseball bat. I had never seen a dobber like that before. Even my husband, who was over six feet tall, had only the standard five inches. I wasn't sure I wanted Irving to stick that thing in me.
I was too inexperienced to know that Irving was an exception. My immediate reaction was to feel cheated. I thought that I had been going with inferior men all this time. And that maybe that was why I had never reached an orgasm with a man. But of course I was kidding myself.
The truth, I was to learn after twelve years as a prostitute, is that the average male has about five inches, some less. Black, white, yellow, red man, that is the average. The largest penis I have seen was seven inches. Irving had seven and so did one black man I serviced. Penis length has been exaggerated in sex novels and hot books and most men have been made to feel inferior. I do not believe there is any difference between the races. That is a myth. The black man's penis sometimes hangs longer when it is relaxed, but they don't erect any bigger than anyone else's. Arabs may run a little shorter than the average. And I knew a Filipino who only carried four, but I don't think that is typical of the race. And I don't think it makes a difference. It is only the square broads who worry about penis size. As far as the prostitute is concerned, the smaller the better.
I had mixed emotions about Irving. I admired his length, but I just could not let him skewer me with that thing. But of course that is why he was there. If I didn't do something he sure as hell was going to get mad. Aside from the prospects of beating, he could really queer things with Carl. Then where would I be? Back to living on hamburgers and Coke.
Before Irving could take another move I was down on my knees fondling his penis. I moved my tongue along its entire length, wetting it down like a Havana cigar. Then my tongue danced on his tip and I felt him shudder with pleasure. He had come for something else, but it looked like he was going to settle for this.
I took him slowly into my mouth and began moving up and down, gradually increasing the pace. His hands dug into my hair and held me tightly. His prick throbbed and seemed to grow larger as I sucked. The wilder I got the more he liked it. I reached for his buttocks and pulled him deeper into me, until I could hardly breathe. He groaned aloud, shivering with delight. I let him slip farther into me until I nearly choked. He pumped back and forth matching my pace, while all the time my tongue danced around his tip. He moaned like an animal in lust.
I guess I was good at Frenching, because Irving was hopping around and gasping like a lunatic. He was enjoying me to the fullest and I was pleased as any novice would be. Unfortunately, I was getting no thrill out of it. And the thought of him shooting into my mouth was not pleasant. I wondered how I would get out of that. The real pros pretend to swallow it. They claim the client gets more of a charge that way. But I had yet to learn that trick and as a result I sometimes threw up.
His hips worked in time with my mouth. He was pumping wildly, furiously, into my face. It would be soon now. I felt him stiffen. His groans climbed to whimpers. He screamed like a wild beast.
I jumped back, pulling my face out of the way and took the full blast of his load on my breasts. I gripped his cock tightly, feeling the full power of his orgasm. He flopped around like a beached fish and the cum never seemed to stop. It slapped into me with the force of angry waves, hot and thick.
When it was over Irving stood there with his eyes closed, as though he were still savoring the hot thrill. He had a wide silly grin on his face. I had gotten to him. He'd be back for more, I was sure of that. But most important, I knew he'd put in a good word for me with Carl.
Before he left Irving took one last admiring look at me and said, "You are one smart bitch."
I wasn't sure what he meant, but it had to be good. Little did he know he was my first client!
I tore open the envelope he left on the dresser. There were two new fifty dollar bills inside. Not bad for a beginner.
CHAPTER 4
The Learning Days
LOS ANGELES BURGEONS WITH FIRST-RATE HOTELS, apartment-hotels and motels. Among the many really good ones are the Statler-Hilton and the Hotel Ambassador with its two or three-acre lawn rimming one of the country's busiest thoroughfares, Wilshire Boulevard, running east to west from Pershing Square to the Pacific Ocean. Inside the Ambassador is the world-famous Coconut Grove, playroom of the rich.
Carl's hotel was ideally situated, only three blocks away. Not as renowned, but he caught much of the overflow. Especially, the sexually minded. There were rare vacancies and both our businesses prospered. But we never mixed the two. Carl never asked for a cent and that is the truth. Occasionally, we'd get together for sex but that was the extent of it. He was just a nice, wealthy old man living out his years. We became great friends.
I worked seven days a week. It wasn't necessary but I had nothing better to do. I also attended classes at the University of Southern California. I was an A student in all subjects. Carl had an overabundance of clients and I could have worked ten hours a day if I wanted to, but I wasn't greedy. All friends of Carl's, they were very generous. I got a hundred a throw. Four throws a day, seven days a week makes for a nice pay check. And tax free. Figure it out. Beats working in the factory.
I estimate that in eleven years I have made over four hundred thousand dollars. And that is a conservative estimate, based on a five-day week and a ten-month year. But I always worked seven days and rarely took a non-working vacation. The only time I took less than a hundred was when I was cheated. I didn't stay green too long.
Slowly, I learned my tricks. I had to no one; likes a novice in any profession-particularly not mine. First thing, I lost my nervousness. There was no reason to be up-tight. Men liked me and that was the important thing. When I learned to relax, they liked me more.
Carl kept the clientele older and no one ever gave me a hard time. But I insured that by not allowing anyone to stay too long. In and out and out the door-literally. Men will gab as much as women if you let them. Once it's done, it's done. No sense chatting about it. And current events don't interest me-so beat it. That may sound tough and it is, but believe me there is no other way to do it.
During my first week at Carl's this cat got on a talking spree and stayed for two hours. I didn't have the heart to ask him to leave, but I never let that happen again. I always give a guy a reasonable amount of time to put his clothes back on. Then I open the door and stand by it. (Naturally, he has already paid.) There is something psychological about an open door that makes people want to go through it. Try it some time on a boring guest.
It took months to perfect the technique, but once I got it down, I'd have the client serviced and out in less than five minutes. No kidding! Imagine how much money I could have made if I were greedy. But who has that kind of stamina?
Let's discuss stamina. You have heard this remark as often as I have: "Sure, I'll pay a hundred for her, but it's got to be all night." Okay, let's make it all night. How many times can the average guy do it? It depends on the guy, but I don't like the long waits in between. Once, twice, rarely thrice and a couple of hours shot-and the money is the same. That's the way it's been the few times I goofed and went the all-night bit. As Shakespeare said and I paraphrase, "the performance does not match the appetite." I think it's best for the man and the woman to take one shot and save the rest for later. It suits my style and it's more profitable. It took me a while to learn that.
One of my customers in those learning days was a well-known manufacturer. I'll call him Rufus, because he really was a nice guy and I don't want to embarrass him.
Carl was all excited when he told me about it.
"Treat this one right, Schnucks," he said. His accent was atrocious when he was excited. He had lived in this country for over fifty years but he still spoke with a Deutschland flavor.
"I treat all your friends right, Carl."
"This one is no friend, but a billionaire. He heard about you, baby!" He rubbed his hands together like Scrooge at the counting table.
My suspicions were aroused. "You want a cut, Carl?"
His demeanor changed. "What the hell you talking about?"
"You're entitled. After all you've done for me."
"Shut up!"
"I don't mind ..."
"No! I am a hotel owner." He stood straight-to his full five feet one inch-and I thought he was going to click his heels.
"Don't be angry."
He walked to the door. "The cash is yours. Carl never takes a penny, remember that." He closed the door quietly.
Five minutes later there was a knock on my door. It was Rufus. Carl gave us a quick introduction and disappeared.
Rufus was tall and middle-aged. His hair was gone, except for some strands in front that refused to quit. His spectacles were wide and heavy-rimmed. The lenses were very thick and his eyes were distorted and watery behind them. He reminded me of a very sad dachshund I once owned. When he took his clothes off, he kept the glasses on.
When he spoke I was surprised at how gentle his voice was.
"You remind me of someone," he said.
By this time I had learned not to get involved in conversations with clients, but this time I made an exception. I smiled so that he'd be encouraged to go on.
"Sharon Tate," he said. "The face is almost the same."
I moved out of my negligee. "I'm flattered."
"She's beautiful. I've been in love with her since her first movie."
I looked into the mirror over the bureau. "A fleeting resemblance, perhaps. We're both blondes."
"No, it's the face."
I watched his penis rise toward me.
"The full, pouting, sensuous mouth ... ."
"Cut it!" But I must admit I was pleased because the woman was a beauty. And Rufus was not the first to notice the resemblance. I knew what he would say next."
"Cruel mouth ..."
That was it. They all said so.
He moved closer and put his hands on my breasts. "It's a compliment. Every woman should have a unique quality. Something that transcends beauty."
"I have it?"
"Yes." He pressed against me.
I was about to break another rule and kiss him full on the mouth. He was such a sensitive person. I wanted to express my gratitude. Many clients try to kiss you, but you must discourage them.
I dropped to my knees and took him into my mouth. He uttered a low groan and writhed into me. His hands gripped my ears and drew me closer. For a moment my face was buried in pubic hair. Then he pulled out and kneeled behind me. I knew what he wanted, but I had never done it that way. I looked over my shoulder with apprehension.
"Don't be afraid. It's the only way I like it."
"I'm not afraid."
"Yes you are, Sharon."
"Marilyn."
"Please let me call you Sharon."
"Fine."
"I love you."
I thought he was "bush league" for making that remark.
"Did anyone ever stick a prick up your ass?" he asked me.
"No."
"Well, don't worry. That's not my intention." Then he inserted himself slowly into me from the back way, or doggy position. I tried not to think of the term doggy for fear I'd break up with laughter.
However, he was expert. He sluiced in and out with a nice rhythm. I gave my ass a real twist. He groaned. Each time he pulled back I gave the twist. He liked that little trick. His passion grew and he drove into me with the force of a machine. His balls slapped against my buttocks each time he drove home.
He was getting to me. I actually felt a twitter in my clitoris. I kept wriggling my ass in appreciation.
He increased the length, speed and ferocity of his love strokes. His fingers dug into my breasts. His cock sank into my depths, again and again. Juice ran down my legs.
He felt so damn big inside. Wonderfully big. How marvelous it was. I felt my vagina loosen and wiggled to keep in contact with his penis. Ground my bottom to every thrust.
"Repeat after me," he said, panting above a whisper.
"Okay."
"Wow wow wow wooooooo!"
The sound almost burst my eardrums.
"Go," he said.
"Bow wow," I said.
"Louder," he snarled.
"Bow wow wow."
"Louder." He punched me in the ribs.
"Bow wow."
"Louder!"
"Bow wow woooooooooo," I screamed.
"Louder, longer. Like this. Wow wow woooooooooooooo!"
"Woooooooooooooooo!"
"Go. Go!"
The force of his thrust almost knocked me flat. He had to hold me up with his arms.
"Wow wow wow wow, wooooooooo!" We both said.
His bark died in his throat. "Oh, baby," he wailed as his balls let loose their hot juice. It thundered up his cock and exploded into my cunt walls. "Faster, faster," he said. He was almost sobbing.
I wiggled and bucked until he dropped loose. He curled up on the rug into a fetal position and closed his eyes. "Did you come?" he asked.
"Yes," I lied.
Several minutes passed before he could get up.
The envelope contained two hundred dollars so I didn't complain about this unexpected eccentricity. As he dressed, his face remained a bright pink. He left without saying another word. And thank heaven he didn't ask me to bark again.
I collapsed on the bed. I wanted to have a good laugh, but I couldn't. It must have been the shock. There was nothing left. Drowsiness overtook me. I would have fallen into a deep sleep had I not been alarmed by a strange sound.
At first I thought the radiator had broken. But it was summer and of course the heat wasn't turned on. It was a hiss that rose and fell and seemed to suffocate in the lower registers. I traced it to a point about waist-high on my wall. There was a mark there I hadn't notice before. Upon closer inspection I discovered that it wasn't a mark at all, but a peephole. On the other side was a hysterical Carl, sprawled on the floor. Anger twisted within me. I put on my negligee and ran to his door. It was unlocked and I entered unannounced. He was laughing so hard that I laughed too.
CHAPTER 5
More lessons
THREE WEEKS LATER, CARL SENT ME DOWNSTAIRS to see a woman for $100.
She lay on the sofa naked, except for panties and bra. She had the lithe build of a leopard. A sadness covered her face.
Before I realized it, my hand was on her thigh. I felt her shudder and I quickly removed it. But she took it and looking up at me with pleading eyes slipped it under her panties. Her bush crackled with my touch.
She pulled my head down to her and kissed me on the lips. Her tongue probed gently at first then darted inside with the fury of a woman in need. My mouth came alive. I pressed my fingers into her and watched her soften. Her mouth opened slightly as though she might cry out and she pulled me close and we kissed.
I felt her moisten and I drove my fingers more swiftly. She groaned and undulated under me. Her thighs quivered and she shot her legs up and out as her passion grew. With my free hand I undid her bra and let her breasts fall loose. They cascaded out of their white confines. I lashed at her nipples with my tongue, biting and sucking until I felt her body raging under me. Her groans were the sound of distant water falling onto rocks. I felt her stiffen as she climbed to the edge. She gasped and bucked her frenzy against my strong fingers. I held onto her until it was over. This was my first woman. In New York I met another rich woman who gave me $100. I had very few women clients.
She rested awhile like a child in my arms, then she insisted that she do the same for me. I had not told her about my sex life, or that most sexual techniques did not excite me. Sure, I got some thrill, my clitoris wasn't completely dead; but the hot surging impact was unknown to me. For a long time I thought people were putting me on about sex.
I let her undress me down to my pants. Curiosity I guess, or maybe I really liked her, it's hard to say. But one thing about sexually inadequate people that I found to be true, they are always game to a new experience, hoping that it will break them free. This is the psychology behind some nymphomaniacs. They don't really enjoy sex. They do it time and again in desperation, hoping to bring about normalcy.
I felt a tremor of excitement, but I knew it wasn't going anyplace. She put her lips to my nipples. My breasts were perfect cones, a little larger than hers and with wider nipples.
"Delectable," she said.
I pulled her close to me, hoping that it would be different this time. Her tongue worked feverishly. Her breath was like hot steam against my flesh. She bit at my nipples and I yelled in pain.
Her tongue worked down my belly and around my navel. I felt a tingling begin to grow and pushed her head downward.
"Do me," I said.
"Soon," she replied and mouthed my belly and around my thighs. She was tantalizing me.
I spread my legs in anticipation. Her fingers were butterflies dancing on my pubis. My buttocks quivered and I pumped slowly, imperceptibly at first and then built to a bronco's pace. The tingling was growing but not fast enough and I wanted to help it along.
"Do me," I shouted.
The girl's dark eyes flashed. "I do believe you are ready," she said.
I felt her mouth nibbling at my tufts of hair and suddenly I felt as though I might make it. A small fire raged through me as a warm tongue encountered my clitoris. I surged up, forcing myself against it. Her hands reached under me and clenched my buttocks, holding me against her mouth.
I threw my legs around her head and squeezed. She seemed to delight in my passion. It made her work harder. Her tongue was a whirling tip of fire.
"Faster, faster," I said.
I felt her giggle against me.
She tongued and I bucked and hours seemed to go by. My passion built and faded, climbed and fell, perched on the edge but would not go over. I screamed in frustration and sobbed. She interpreted my action in a different light. She thought I had orgasmed. Her head bobbed up smiling and I hadn't the heart to tell her the truth. She had worked so hard and she had come so close, closer than anyone else ever had. I couldn't ask more of her.
CHAPTER 6
Las Vegas
WHEN I WENT TO LOST WAGES TO GET MY DIVORCE I had to put in a residency of six weeks. I could hardly wait to leave for New York. In spite of all the money here, the men don't spend it on women. Only on the green felt table does the money flow. What few men offered me money offered twenty dollars. At this time my lowest price was still twenty-five. The only time I made any money outside of a few $100-dinner dates, was when a New York junket flew in. They all planned to meet downstairs for dinner in thirty minutes. In that thirty minutes I made five hundred dollars. Later that night, while walking through the Flamingo Lounge, they picked me up for vagrancy with the five hundred still in my pocket book. Girls aren't allowed in the casinos unless they play the tables, if they aren't employed in the city. They booked me but let me go when they found I had a lawyer who was preparing my divorce.
There's very little to say about Las Vegas because it's a very boring town. There is nothing to do. This statement always amazes people who have never been there. They think of Vegas as a glamorous place with endless entertainment. In the first place, the casino shows are indeed topless and spectacular, but they never change the review. And the old clich� is true-you see one, you've seen them all! Once you've seen them, what else is left? There is one movie in the city. It shows old movies only. There are no telephones in the bars or restaurants. You cannot get a taxi by hailing one. You must phone for one. But there are no phones, remember. The only paved street is the main drag where the casinos are and the adjoining street for a few blocks. All this inconvenience is carefully planned, of course. The idea is to make you go to the gambling establishment, if only for a phone call. The only people in town, other than the tourists, are the cowboys with ten-gallon hats who live here in this dry desolate country. It's a good thing Vegas has gambling. They'd never survive without it. The only thing you can do besides gamble is drink. I never liked to gamble but I did like to drink. I started my alcoholism here with zombies. I was glad to leave for New York.
It was here my Mexican girl friend Mary picked up a gambler. She departed with her fifty-year-old gambler and I departed to New York. It was to be the last I saw of my friend, to this day.
* * *
I first met Mary at a movie theatre three blocks from my school, Pasadena City College. I worked nights for ten dollars a week. My room was five dollars and my food took up the rest. Days I went to school. Mary worked the candy counter at the theater and I was an usherette. She had an old MG and we went out on the town with it. The race track, Santa Anita, was only a few blocks from our theater. We went to a bar one night across the street from the track. Some of the jockeys started talking to us and gave us passes. The first day we went to the track, a man handed us two $50 tickets. He said it was his birthday and he was celebrating. The horse won and paid very little; but to us, this was a newfound gold mine. We both quit work and I quit school. Every day we went to the track to find people to buy us tickets. It was at this time I met my benefactor at the party I mentioned earlier. Soon I knew all the jockeys intimately and they proved a good source of money. They were lonely and paid generously for our favors. Angel V. was a nice cat. Ismal, his brother, was okay. Another famous jockey was okay, but he once took back his liquor as he was leaving. I've only known two men who ever brought liquor and took it with them when leaving. R. was okay, but he tried to give me five dollars less each time he saw me. H. gave me forty-five instead of fifty. I'm certain he did it deliberately because it was all wadded up, just like the time Oleg C. and Huntington H. gave me forty-five dollars-all wadded up-to look like an oversight or accident.
B. was a sweetheart. But Y. I detested. I had to cry to get my bread. I was still green and didn't ask for my money in front. Afterwards, he said he'd give me a tip on a horse. I told him I worked the track too. I actually shed tears. Finally, he handed me fifty dollars. I was damn lucky to get it from an old con like a race jockey.
What finally cured me of getting my money after instead of before going to bed was an experience with William B. (may his soul rest fitfully). I met him at Hollywood Park. He called me one day and asked me to meet him at his friend's motel. He drove up in a Bentley and I drove up in a borrowed three-year-old Cadillac. I forget now why I didn't drive my new Corvette. Social status in California is judged exclusively by the year and make of your car. Hence, I made an abominable first impression. Initially, he walked over to my purse on the chair in the motel, opened it and slipped a single bill into it. I was certain it was a Benjamin Franklin. If it turned out to be a Grant, I would mope for weeks, but I would get over the loss eventually. Well, I didn't check the contents of the purse until we parted. Naturally, I couldn't walk over to the purse and look to see what he gave me, could I? Couldn't be that crass, could I? Not only could I, but I should have. Inside was, you guessed it, a twenty-dollar bill.
So much for billionaires. Now I ask and look first. The only disadvantage in this is that occasionally you'll ask a cat for fifty dollars when he plans on giving you a hundred. It happens but seldom-still, it has happened to me.
Yes, everything seems to happen to me. For instance, in California I was supposed to win the Rose Bowl title but was disqualified because I was married. By the time word got to New York, Murray Kempton had me Miss United States. He was writing in regard to the Jersey case with the warden and the loan shark and he mentioned my connection with it. He writes a good column in the New York papers; I generally agree with everything he writes. I find him to be a liberal. But he didn't invent that Miss United States title for me. He heard it from some of the same people I did, apparently. I had people calling me for a long time asking me if I hadn't won a title like that. Where did it start? Where does anything start? God only knows.
I just got up to answer the door. It was the FBI. They want to know if I am harboring a bank robber. I told them no. They said if I should see him to contact them. Said I would. Doesn't everybody live like this?
They said they'd give me a big reward for turning him in. I'd like to give a reward to them if they'd reveal the name of the person who said the cat was at my place and gave them my address.
Naturally the Feds had to knock on my neighbors' doors first to ask if I still lived here. When I see my neighbors I'll smile sweetly and keep them in suspense. Nosy bastards. Let them get their vicarious thrills elsewhere. They're just waiting for the fuzz to get me on some damn thing. They see men going out of my pad at all hours.
Yes, I found Vegas boring. The emphasis is on gambling. You'll find any game you are looking for, provided it is the type of game that favors the establishment. There are no give-aways here. The only game that gives the customer a break is blackjack. But most of the suckers don't know that. Slot machines are everywhere, even in the hotel rooms. They pay off at a very low percentage. People who have never been there are amazed by this statement. They think of Vegas as a glamorous Hollywood set with endless entertainment. I admit that the casino shows are spectacular and sport some of the most beautiful girls in the world, but they never change the review. None of them do! And if you have seen one show ...
There is one movie house which shows nothing but old movies-the late, late show variety. I guess they are competing with television. There are no telephones in the bars or restaurants. If you want a cab you must call for one. Hailing one is against the law, I suppose. The casinos have all the phones, next to the slot machines-ratio of thirty machines to one phone.
Another thing the sucker tourist does not know, or perhaps refuses to think about, is that the games are not always legit. Aside from the fantastic odds that favors the house, there are periods, when the house needs a fast bundle, when practically nothing goes to the customer. The pros know about this and are usually forewarned, but the tourist never knows. He goes on merrily giving his money away. But I suppose that is why he is there.
The casino owners love the method players-those freaks who think they are smart enough to beat the roulette wheel, or any other game of their choice. They come with their pads of figures and borrowed bankrolls and plays for hours, even days and go home broke. One casino bought a guy a bus ticket to his hometown. The owners are very humane after they have relieved you of your savings. More power to them-after all, they are only giving the sucker what he is asking for. Does GM or Ford do any different?
I was in town to get a divorce and was shocked to find that I'd have to spend six weeks in residency. My lawyer explained that while divorces were on a mass-production basis out here, there were certain formalities that had to be followed. I reluctantly agreed. There wasn't much sense in staying tied to that long-haired, hippie-talking, bricklaying bore of a man, that husband of mine. Besides, I had a hunch he was going to start hitting me for cash and I didn't want that. Bricklaying was seasonal and he sure as hell wasn't going to sell too many of those encyclopedias he had started peddling.
I was worried about my daughter. I'd get some money to her personally when I could. How receptive a whore's mind is. I was running away from both of them. It would be a miracle if I ever saw either one of them again. But the deception was necessary for my present state of mind. Freedom was all I thought about.
I intended to work the strip and some of the large casinos. What a rude surprise I had in store. My first shock was when I found out how little men spend on women out here. The big cash goes across the green tables and that is about it I found myself working for twenty and twenty-five dollars. A few $100-dollar dinner dates came my way and I jumped at them. A dinner date is when a man wants to spend some time with you-show you off around town. Some men enjoy this. I suspect this type of male would rather be seen with a good-looking girl than to have sex with her. Sometimes these dates ended up in sex, often they did not.
Whenever a junket flew in from New York, there was big cash flowing around. As I said before, I watched this one convention group arrive. Listening to bits of conversation I found out some room numbers and even first names. I overheard one guy telling his buddies that he'd meet them in the lounge in thirty minutes. In those thirty minutes I made over five hundred dollars. I followed the man to his room and worked my way through to his buddies through adjoining doors. It was almost the quickest money I ever made.
I knocked on the first door. A man opened it. When he saw me he yanked me right in as though he were expecting me. He was younger than the rest, tall and smiling with a pompadour hanging over his forehead. Apparently he knew without asking what I was there for.
He immediately made the business transaction. "I'll give you a hundred. And so will every one of my buddies," he said. Now, that suited me. I never like to haggle.
I wasn't sure what he preferred, so I just took a chance. I reached for his crotch and massaged him through his penis until he got hard. He began to pant. "Go down," he said.
"Right, babe, but let me get my clothes off first."
That always gets them, the delay. I thought he was going to cream in his pants as he watched me undress. Like any good stripper, I took my time. First the blouse and bra. Then a slow slide with the skirt, half slip over the head. And a quick drop of the panties.
"Boy, are you built," he muttered.
"So are you, babe." I replied. All men like to hear that. Coming from a prostitute who has seen hundreds of cocks it is a real compliment. I'll say anything to make my job easier.
He unzippered his pants. My hand went inside in a flash. He was hard, lean and uncircumcised, well-defined with thick veins throbbing under my touch. I brought it out of his pants and played with it, running my fingers delicately over his thickness and around the head. I began to jerk him slowly.
"Go down," he said again. Then he added, "Please." He sounded like a little boy.
I went to my knees. Starting at the balls I ran my tongue around and around each circular globe very slowly. I could feel him tremble. He was very hairy but I had long since learned to live with that sort of thing. Carefully I took one ball slowly into my mouth. It was soft and very warm. I sucked and ran my tongue over it. Then, using my fingers as a guide, I carefully took the other. I juggled both of them in my mouth with my tongue. It was a nice little trick and never failed to get men hot. I bounced those balls delicately, sucking as I went. I think he would have come right then had I continued, so I decided to stop and concentrate on his cock.
I ran my tongue slowly up one side and down the other of his throbbing cock. Each time I got to his head I gave it a nibble and quick suck. The man nearly went nuts. His finger dug into my scalp. He moaned. And when I looked up his eyes were closed and he had the silliest grin on his face.
I continued running my tongue vertically up and down his cock. Finally, I took the head, played with it tongue-fashion, then slowly took his entire cock into my mouth. It bounced against the back of my throat. I reamed him back and forth, letting the tip slide out of my lips and then all the way back to the tonsils. He began to buck against me. I sensed he was close to orgasm.
It was only recently that I had learned to accept the whole cock into my mouth without gagging or biting. It took time and a lot of patience. But if you want to be good you've got to have a repertoire of tricks. Most girls never master this trick. They usually gag or get their teeth in the way. Mastery of this feat is the mark of a professional.
His juice came spurting into my mouth. It was warm and creamy. It filled my mouth and ran out my lips. He kept banging his cock in and out. His ramming made squishing sounds with the load he had deposited. Each time he rammed back I almost swallowed some of it, but I always make it a practice not to do so. I can even talk with it in my mouth. Then I slip into the bathroom and spit it out. The thing is to make them think you are doing it when you're not.
After he came, I slowly made my way to the bathroom. He was talking to me and I answered as calmly as before, never letting on what I was about to do. Once I reached the bathroom I rinsed my mouth out with hot water. He had some mouthwash on the sink. Most men carry it with them. I gargled the last of it out of my mouth and throat.
When I came back he was as pleased and satisfied as can be. "Do you like to swallow it?" he asked.
"Sure, babe, if I like the guy."
He slipped me another ten dollars beyond the hundred he had already given me. He told me he was from New York and so was everyone of his pals. I got his name and address for future reference. Work can be fun sometimes.
I picked up my clothes and knocked on the adjoining door. "Come in," a husky voice said. I knew he was expecting me because my date had already called him and the others.
I walked in and he was nude in his chair, holding a hundred-dollar bill in his hand. Now, I liked that. Nothing pleases me more than to see the cash first off.
You learn some lessons in this business. Get the money first is perhaps the cardinal rule. A man will promise you anything until he orgasms, then he changes like a chameleon. Some get depressed, mean, ornery and you're lucky to get half of what you bargained for.
This was ideal. I wasn't even in the door and whammo, the money.
He said his name was Pussy. He was stocky, bald, red-faced and constantly smiling.
He wanted to French me. I usually decline this sort of thing as it is time-consuming and unprofessional. Besides, I get no big thrill out of it. Most men who have been around prostitutes know they can't. Girls save that sort of thing for their boyfriend or "girl friends", as it is all they can give of themselves. But, he was a nice sort and I already had his money. So I went along with it.
I got onto the bed and spread my legs wide. His darting tongue dug into my vagina. After a series of passionate lickings and suckings he got to the clitoris. My little-man-in-the-boat throbbed and grew stiff. I was responding to his eager tongue. It was a very pleasant sensation, though I knew I could never reach a climax.
I stopped him when I felt I had enough. He knelt on the bed with spittle running from his lips. His eyes were crazed.
His penis was erect. It stuck out at me like a pole. The blood-gorged tip was purple. Drops of cum clung to its surface. He grabbed me by the hair and pushed my head forcibly onto his cock.
It was a large cock, about seven inches. No matter how wide I opened my mouth I found myself still gagging. But I did the best I could, wetting him with my tongue, sucking his firm head. Then I released his cock and ran my lips and down each side, nibbling as I went. I cooed dialogue: "Get hot, baby, give me that hot juice, see if you can squirt it all over my teeth, see how far you can shoot it. Shoot it over my stomach and lick it up."
This kind of talk will excite most men. It worked with Pussy better than expected. His face stiffened, his breathing grew louder. He tried to talk but it was unintelligible. Then just as I thought he was going to shoot, he did the unexpected.
He threw me down hard on the bed and rammed his aching cock into my hole. He rammed with the speed and precision of a dynamo. He was lost in a torrent of passion.
His hot prong sizzed in my juice. Our bodies came together with brutal force. The flesh on our stomachs smacked hard. He yelped and blew his load into my craw. He jerked like a man in seizure, bit my neck, kept pumping until I thought he might be going for a second. Then he was still. He rolled off me, covered his eyes with his forearm and appeared to go asleep.
I didn't waste any time. I wiped the drippings from my crotch and knocked on the next door.
"Goodbye," I flung over my shoulder to Pussy, but he did not answer me.
I should mention that I saw Pussy later that evening in the lounge with a chorus girl. She was sitting on his lap and I saw him hand her a hundred-dollar bill. When she got it she left him and sauntered back to the chorus line.
That kind of stuff makes me angry. I worked damn hard for this hundred. That broad got it merely for sitting on his lap. But you learn to put up with things like that.
Most of the show girls are part-time hookers. But they don't have time to devote to the business. Therefore, most of them remain amateurs. Either they accept poor money, which makes it bad for all of us, or they get paid top dollar for doing nothing, which is equally bad.
I have no doubt that this particular show girl did nothing for the hundred except sit on Pussy's lap. Show girls are competition and generally bad for business because most of them are amateurs.
The third conventioneer was short and fat and about fifty plus. Again the payment was immediate and no haggling.
I told him to lie down and he said to me, "No, you lie down. I want to please you."
I was taken aback by that statement. The last thing I wanted was romance. He wanted to French me, but I talked him out of it. The quick lay is my style. In and out and out the door with the money.
He went along with me though I think he was disappointed. I tried to French him, to make amends. He wanted no part of it. Said it gave him a premature ejaculation.
I rarely argue with a customer. And of course I know that some men are very sensitive about Frenching. Some love it, others abhor it and still others can't live without it.
I lay on the bed and spread my pussy. He came after me like a teenager on his first lay. His eyes were wide and bright and his grin nearly made me laugh. I decided to put the con on him.
This guy was from Nowheresville. I held a disdain for him that every professional has for the amateur.
He came at me with his four-and-a-half-inch dobber. He held it like it was something precious.
I said, "Oh, my god. How will I ever get that thing inside of me? You'll kill me with that weapon." I spit on my fingers and lubricated the head of his prick. Then I spit on my fingers again and rubbed them over my box. I could see that he was pleased.
"That's to eliminate the pain when you enter," I said.
"But aren't you experienced?"
"Experienced or not, no one likes a mammoth cock."
That really got him. He came after me with increased zeal.
He put his head on my cunt-lips and hesitated, "I won't give it to you all at once, baby."
"Good. Good. Nice man."
He moved his tip clockwise and then reversed the movement. Not a bad technique, actually. I felt a twitter down there. Of course, I was already juiced from the other boys.
He worked his dork into me inch by inch.
"Come into my little honey pot," I said.
"Oh, that cunt feels warm."
I began to wonder who was conning whom but I decided to carry on. If he wanted dialogue, no one could top me.
"Feels great."
"No kidding? Feels good?"
"Grrrove me, daddy."
"Keeping saying that." Then he began to moan.
"Groove ... Groove ..."
In and out his cock went and as the dialogue went on he got better, seeming to get stronger. Pumped with more vigor. Ground it in clockwise. Ground it back the other way. He was sweating all over me. Our stomachs squeaked when they came together.
"Work with me, baby. Move that ass faster."
How he could talk for an older guy. "Right on," I said. I felt my juices flow over him. He began to slip and slide in their wake. Made hot juicy sounds as his prick went in and out.
Suddenly he yelped, "I'm coming. I'm coming!"
On cue I went back at him, "Fuck me, fuck me. Give it to me now. Now. Now!"
I felt his load splash inside of me. He must have come a gallon. It just never stopped, kept coming and coming. And all the while he bucked like a bronco. Good energy for a man his age.
Finally, he threw himself on the bed and exhaled a long gasp. "Oh my God, that was good. I wish I could do it again, but I can't." And then he said something really significant. "You talk a good one, honey."
I nearly fell on the floor. This cat probably liked the dialogue more than he did the screw!
Fortunately, I was only a little tired. The lure of more money kept me going. The next on the list greeted me eagerly. He was expecting me so he was already nude. He was a little younger than the last, about fifty as I recall. He was sprouting gray hair through his strands of red. He had clear blue eyes that seemed warm and friendly. He was short and slender-I should say slight of build. His ribs showed through and his chest was sunken.
I got a little worried. Most of these slight guys have those gigantic cocks. My eyes immediately went to his dobber. It was limp alongside his thigh. I saw it twitch and point my way. It kept coming and coming. Yep, he had a garden hose.
He was a bit timid about getting around to what he wanted. Finally, I had to ask him. Hoping he didn't want to screw. Because if there's anything that wears me out it's a big cock.
I estimated him to be around seven inches, about the biggest I've seen and very thick around the head. I put my hand on it and felt the heat. It responded to my touch with a drop of cum at its tip. I licked it off. Put my mouth over its head and hoped he'd be satisfied with a blow job.
He wasn't. Wanted to be reamed. I had never done this before, but I thought I could con him. After he turned over on his stomach I ran my lips alone his spine and around his buttocks. Then I placed my face between his cheeks. But instead of using my tongue, I used my finger. He never knew the difference.
He jumped around and yelled and asked for more, pleaded with me to do it faster. I did all he asked and more. And I believe that had he known it was my finger, he wouldn't have cared.
The finger trick is a good one. It feels like a tongue and is just as manipulative. And if you hit the right places no one is going to complain.
What I did was wet it first with spittle. I chose the smallest finger because the nail was worn down. Once I entered the anus, he couldn't tell the difference.
I ended it up by darting it all the way in and out. Right to the last knuckle. He enjoyed that most of all and his behind kept match with the rhythm, up and down, around and over. I reached around his waist and grasped his cock. It was pulsing with desire. As I reamed his asshole I gave him a hell of a good jerking.
He then wanted to Greek me. Ordinarily I would have said no, but I was learning the con game. "Sure," I said. But I had no intention of letting him stuff that weapon up my ass.
I got down on my knees, dog fashion. He came behind me with his dripping cock. He pushed it between my cheeks. Not being lubricated, there was a natural resistance. He pushed harder, becoming impatient. I sensed his frustration.
I reached back and grabbed his cock and said, "Let me guide you." As soon as I spoke he relaxed. I took his knob and carefully inserted it into my vagina. He never knew the difference.
I pretended it hurt and I moved my bottom as though it did. And I said things like, "Careful, easy does it." In the position he was in, there was no way he could see what was happening. It was all sense of touch and apparently he couldn't tell the difference. I moaned some more and said it hurt and I think that helped. If he had entered too easily he would have known.
This position always caused me some discomfort. And especially when the client had a large cock. So I assure you it was not a complete joy ride for me.
The position demands a large cock. A small one usually slips out. And I have observed that men with small organs do not prefer this position.
He reamed me good. His thick instrument rammed back and forth with the force of a steam engine.
"Oooh, you have a nice long one, dearest," I said.
He began to pant hard. My box was alive and dripping. His breath came in thick, shuddering bursts. His energy seemed boundless as he worked on and on.
"I just love to screw an ass," he said.
"Come, daddy, come."
"No, sir. Not yet." Then he stopped his mad humping and told me to sit on him. He pulled his dripping tool from my box and led me to the bed.
I tried to talk him out of this because it usually prolongs the orgasm. I still had more work lined up for the afternoon. However, I agreed to try it for a few minutes. He stretched out on the bed and I mounted him. Sliding my knees over his hips I then lowered my wet, hairy cunt over his cock. Then I slowly sat on it. I took it to the pubic hairs. Taking all that cock felt like a stick going all the way to my throat.
After the initial pain of entry wore away I then moved up and down very slowly. He groaned with delight. His eyes closed and his tongue rolled in his mouth. Then I increased the motion. At first he just lay there and let me do all the work, but then he caught my rhythm and we became one jiving unit. We knocked the shit out of the bed.
I could hear air being sucked into my cunt with each thrust. It whoomped and squished with my juices. I knew that when it was over I was going to be farting through my vagina for a while.
My knees gripped his hips and held him. Then I went into my bit. I decided to do my very best for him. I put my feet where my knees were. Still in the crouching position I slowly rose off of his pulsing cock. I rose to several inches above his cock head. Then I dropped down upon it, driving it right up me. I repeated this with great force and speed. It is a bad workout for the calves and leg muscles. But once the cunt is juiced up there is no problem there. The bed also takes a beating.
Each time I dropped on him air left his lungs. He groaned his lust. Followed me up with his hips, trying to keep his cock inserted as long as possible. Then we'd crash back down together in a wild orgy of delight. He bolted his load into me without warning.
I was on my way up and just as I lifted off his cock head, he let me have it. It splashed over my cunt hair and legs, up my ass and just about every other place.
He screamed as he came. Like an animal. For a moment I thought he had gone into seizure. His breathing rattled in his throat.
Then he was pleading with me, "Let me lick you off. Please, please." Before I could reply he was upon me, licking, sucking, even biting that hot cream from my bottom. He wasn't satisfied until he had gotten every last bit of it with that searching tongue of his, sluicing, sliding over me. Even entering my asshole. And when he got to my cunt he sucked up every last bite of juice inside. When he finished with me I was bone-dry.
We both fell exhausted to the bed. I think I actually fell asleep for an instant. But then I was up on my feet, my clothes under my arm and knocking on the next door.
"Don't forget to come back," my client said to me.
"I won't, stud." And I was gone.
The next fellow's name was Leo and he had a friend. They were both very short but much younger than the others. I'd say early forties.
"Your friend interested too?" I asked the obvious.
"Sure he is. Aren't you, Sol?"
Sol peeled off two hundred bucks and handed them to me. "Sure you are," I said.
Both began undressing a hurry, ogling my body as they did so. They stood before me nude in about five seconds flat.
I said, "Your friend can wait in the next room until we finish."
Leo said, "Oh, he's going to join us."
"How nice."
"Don't you want to be a sandwich?" the friend asked.
"A sandwich? What the hell is that?"
Leo explained. "My friend here gets on the bottom, I get on the top. You're in the middle. And that's a sandwich."
I refused. I absolutely would not go along with that one. I like innovations, but I was afraid that exercise would break every vertebra in my spine. Also and equally paramount in my mind, was my disdain for the cock up the ass. In that position there would be no way to fake it.
"Emphatically no!" I screamed at them.
"Okay, okay," They said in unison.
And so we improvised. They wanted sex together. It was the last play for the afternoon so I decided to go along with it.
I lay on the bed spread-eagle. Leo began masturbating his five-inch cock. It had a smooth purple head on it. I wanted to suck him.
But it was Sol who thrust his cock into my mouth. I accepted it, gripping it tightly with my lips and ringing the hot tip with my tongue.
"I'm going to come all over your stomach," Leo said.
I would have answered but I couldn't. He continued, "I'm going to shoot this juice all over your white body and over your face."
At the same time Sol was pushing his cock so far down my throat that I was about to gag.
"Hum," Sol said to me.
I thought the son-of-a-bitch was crazy.
"Hum," he said again, digging his fingers into my shoulder.
And so I hummed the Marine Hymn, at least three times through, before he got off that kick.
"More, more, again, again," Sol kept yelling.
I hummed him a mouthful.
"I like the vibrations," he said.
I was entirely at their mercy. I followed instructions to the letter. If Sol had asked for Brahms, I would have given it to him.
Leo said, "I'm going to shove this big dick up your pussy."
"Do it," Sol encouraged him.
I hummed my consent.
Leo placed his smooth head on my cunt and thrust savagely. He went from tip to pubic hair with one thrust. Each push had power to it, driving me deep into the bed. He didn't miss a stroke, driving home the fire. The juices began to flow. I heard him slip and squish inside of me. The sounds seemed to get him more excited. He pumped all the harder.
Then he reached up and twisted my nipple. It was a sadistic move. My nipples jumped erect from the pain, but there was also a warm sensuality to the action. He was unable to control himself. His fingers dug into me unmercifully. I was in dreadful pain.
But it is a strange thing, the way pain can be nullified by sexual pleasure. The cocks in my mouth and cunt were sluicing back and forth, filling me with fever. I felt my temperature rise. I thought I might even reach an orgasm. The pain was soon forgotten.
Sol was yelling, "Fuck that whore. Fuck the cunt off that whore."
Leo said, "I can't hold back. I'm going to come."
"Let's do it together," Sol said and in an instant his hot cum was pouring down my throat. It felt as though it came from a great distance, splashing inside of me. I gagged and automatically swallowed a good part of his load. It was thick and creamy. It had a hot, bitter taste and scalded the lining of my mouth.
Leo came an instant later. I felt his load splash home. He shuddered on top of me. Even his teeth chattered. He tried to talk, but couldn't form a word. He bounced and flopped until it was all out of him.
After a man orgasms he often wants to get away from the woman. This was the case here. Both men left the bed in an instant. Leo sat exhausted on a chair. Sol stretched out on the floor. Mostly, it was physical fatigue. A man loses a good amount of body fluid with an orgasm. But I think there is also a psychological reason.
I made my way to the bath. Cleaned out my mouth and hole. Got dressed and bade my friends goodbye. Five hundred dollars richer, I felt ready for the next opportunity. After all, there was the evening to consider.
Actually, I had taken a terrible risk and was lucky to get away with it. All of the hotels are very careful about open solicitation. Had a house dick seen me, I would have been hauled in. Perhaps I was seen, because later that evening around eleven o'clock I was picked up while walking through the lounge. The five hundred plus was still in my purse. As I said, they arrested me for vagrancy, but let me go when they found out I had a lawyer preparing a divorce.
CHAPTER 7
Leaving Vegas
MY FRIEND RED INTRODUCED ME TO A FRIEND OF his at the Flamingo Lounge. Her name was Ginger and I could tell from her looks and the way she handled herself that she was no ordinary broad. We hit it off real well and she gave me her number. Apparently she saw right through me too. She didn't bite at the girl friend bit.
She was tall and lean, brunette, with the sexiest eyes I've ever seen on a girl. Her voice was low and enticing and she knew what got a man hot. While we sat at the table I saw her put her hand on Red's thigh. He nearly jumped out of his chair. She was a hooker all right and I knew she was getting top dollar. I needed a contact like her and as it turned out, she was looking for someone like me.
I made the call and she explained everything. She had some steadies who were always in need of extra girls. While the town was packed with women, it wasn't always easy to find something that wasn't already tied up. There were a lot of girls working the place, but they were so busy you couldn't rely upon them. They'd make a date, then break it for what looked like a better offer. Some of Ginger's friends were getting angry with her and she was afraid of losing her business. As she put it, "you work all your life to find some good steadies and these floozies do their best to screw up the works."
She was so desperate she tried to persuade me to extend my time in town. I told her I was eager to work with her, especially as the money was good, but I didn't know about staying beyond my six weeks.
Ginger had the contacts as she promised and the work was steady and lucrative. I was getting my hundred per again and there were very few dinner dates involved. One of Ginger's biggest assets, which I had realized in the beginning, was that she was known and liked by casino owners. Many of these were rumored to be Mafioso, but I can't verify that. However, most were Italian, or were dark enough to pass for Italian, so I assumed rightly-or wrongly-that the rumors were true.
After I had worked with Ginger for about a week, I noticed a change in attitude around the casinos. On more than one occasion I was given money for no reason, except that I happened to be sitting there at the time. It happened about four times and these men never gave me their names or asked for anything. They just plunked some chips or cash in my hand and never said a word. I have never been able to figure it out.
I asked Ginger about it one day and she got a little snippy.
"So what?" she said.
"One guy gave me a hundred."
"I got more than that one night. Don't make a thing of it."
"I'm not. I'm just grateful, that's all."
"Good! Then keep your mouth closed."
"Okay, okay."
She asked me to describe the guys who had given me money. I couldn't remember them all, but the last one was clear in my mind. He was short, about five eight or nine, dark hair with long sideburns and dark complexion. His mouth had a funny twist to it, as if it had been injured at one time.
"That's Tony," Ginger said.
"What's his last name?"
"R.," she answered reluctantly. "But don't tell him I told you."
"Fine, but what's the problem?"
"Tony and I was pretty steady at one time."
"I see. Well don't worry, he didn't make a pass or anything. All he did was slip some chips into my hand. He didn't even speak."
"All right! Let's drop it."
From then on, I watched what I told Ginger. And I knew she wouldn't ask me again to stay beyond the sixth week. Funny, how a relationship can change in an instant.
The work was steadier than ever. It seemed every convention in the country was in Vegas. This, plus Ginger's contacts, had us working overtime. We were even turning work away. In one week I made over four thousand dollars. I had so much cash I was afraid to leave my room. I eventually put it in the hotel vault.
My lawyer called and had me meet him at the Flamingo. He practically lived there, anyway. The divorce was automatic, he told me and as I wasn't fighting for alimony there wouldn't be any hold-ups. However, he briefed me on some of the questions he was going to ask in court and I almost flipped. All I wanted was a divorce, not a forum of phony grievances. He wanted me to admit that my husband beat me and all of that and several other things that were complete lies. I objected of course, but he gradually wore me down. This is how you do it, you say anything that will be accepted legally. The worse it is, the quicker the divorce. I reluctantly agreed to publicly call my husband a wife-beater.
Once that was settled, my lawyer left and I settled into a contest with a slot machine. It was a fifty-center and I must have sunk about forty bucks into it before it paid off-fifteen bucks. I was in the process of putting it all back, when Tony R. walked up behind me.
"Don't you know you're supposed to quit when you win?"
"Hi! I guess I'm a born sucker."
"No one is born a sucker. It is something one acquires."
I had never heard him speak before and I liked the way he clipped his words. He caught me checking out his hands.
"No chips this time," he said, knowing why I had looked.
I was embarrassed but I didn't let him know. "I'd rather have you talk to me. When you give the chips you take off like a kid after his mother."
He smiled and I savored his handsome face. I appreciate a good-looking man. Sex means nothing to me, but a pretty human being, male or female, fills me with a warm, pleasurable, vaguely erotic feeling. I didn't want to say it, but I couldn't help myself. "Tony you are one handsome devil."
He had heard that one before, of course. He dropped the smile and became deadly serious. "Since you know my name I assume Ginger has told it to you. Take my advice and stay away from her."
"Is this a threat?"
The smile returned, but it had an unfriendliness to it.
"Hell, no. I don't threaten people. Just want you to know that you are in dangerous company."
"I know she has a temper ..."
"More than that. She has a deep hatred for people, especially those who she thinks have crossed her. And any little thing can throw her off."
I believed him but I wasn't upset. My divorce would come through in a few more days and I was headed for New York.
Tony went on to explain about their love affair. Ginger had come to Vegas right out of high school. She was from some small town in Pennsylvania. The glamour and bright lights seemed wondrous things from so far away. She took a job in Tony's club as a hat-check girl. Immediately,, she got a big play from the men. She was smart enough to keep her cool, but when the madams began flashing the big cash in front of her she began to weaken. That was when Tony stepped in. He told her the facts, tried to get her straight and in the process they both fell in love. For a while it was all beautiful and romantic, then she found out about Tony's wife. She should have known better, a handsome man like Tony always has a wife somewhere. But she took it hard and for spite went to work for one of the madams. Within a week she was big time. Instead of keeping it to her herself, she flaunted it in front of Tony and ruined any chance there was of getting back together with him.
Tony had thought that was the end of it, but it wasn't. She kept calling him at the club, interrupting his work. He finally had to send a few of his men to straighten her out. They didn't rough her up or anything, just gave her a friendly warning. She took it and the phone calls stopped. But she began to play other games. One night Tony was at the bar with a girl friend of his. It was late and they had been drinking steadily. Tony didn't know that he was being watched. Suddenly, Ginger appeared behind them with a broken cocktail glass. The bartender shouted a warning, too late. The girl turned in time to take the jagged stem in her cheek. Tony belted Ginger around the place, but by then the damage was done.
She paid the girl off handsomely, so no charges were brought against her. Then she disappeared for a while. When she came back she quickly gained a reputation as a "mean one." Whips and beatings became part of her repertoire. But that is another part of the business and there is as much money in that facet of it as any other.
The thing that surprised me was that none of this behavior occurred when we worked together. But then the clientele was pretty square-middle-class types who rarely go beyond the straight stuff.
I asked Tony what all of this meant to me.
"Look, sooner or later she'll find an excuse to hate you. When that happens, look out.
"I've never done anything to her."
"Doesn't matter."
"I know she doesn't like me taking chips from you."
"That could be reason enough."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Guess." "
"Sex?"
"Maybe."
"Fine with me. But I come high."
He slipped two fifty-dollar chips into my hand. We went upstairs into his private office.
Tony was like sculpted rock without his clothes. Every muscle was sharply defined. His body looked much younger than his face, which was just beginning to show the first signs of tension and worry. His shoulders were broad, with tapering biceps and heavy forearms. There was very little hair on his body. His legs were thick at the thighs and calves and made me wonder if he had done laboring work at one time.
I rubbed my hands over every inch of him, massaging, kneading, caressing. When finally I took his penis into my hand he almost popped right then. I wanted to French him because it was a fine, thickly built penis, but he would have none of it. He pulled it from my lips.
He picked me up in his arms and half threw, half set me on the bed. I wrapped my legs high around his hips. He was in like a flash. His thrust was vigorous, driving me into the mattress. He came almost immediately. I was disappointed because I wanted to spend some time with this Adonis. But to my surprise, he kept on going. I felt his shrunken penis grow inside of me. It grew like a searching root until it was firm as before. Now his frenzy built to an impossible passion. It was as though the second erection had unleased an ungodly force within him. His breath was like steam on my neck. He bit me several times. I could not keep up with his rhythm. Finally, I stopped trying and just let him ream me with all the force of his being. It took him one hell of a long time to come the second time.
"Did you come?" he asked me.
Like a fool I told him the truth.
His Sicilian temper took hold of him. "I'm going to make you come," he said.
His fingers took hold of my chin and tipped my head back. He put his hard lips on mine. His tongue forced my lips apart. His hand cupped my breast, as he drove his tongue deeper into my mouth.
My tongue came alive and began to duel with his, working to get into his hot mouth. My lips closed around his tongue and sucked it furiously.
My nipple was erect under his firm caress. His other hand dropped to the smoothness of my belly. He went lower, running his fingers through my pussy hair. I heard a low moan in his throat.
He found the beginning of my cunt and began to search inside. My hips began to move, revolving slowly as my cunt tried to grab the fingers that were teasing it.
I sent my hand down and took his cock. I was surprised to find it erect again. (What a man!) We held our long, hot kiss while we fondled each other's hot organs. I moved his foreskin over his swollen head, back and forth. He groaned with pleasure.
His finger were deep within me now. I was thrusting my hips against his probes. Meanwhile our tongues continued to do battle.
"Lie down, honey. And spread your legs."
He took me for the third time. A wild, bucking fuck that brought me dangerously close to the edge. I fought to go over, almost, almost. His shaft was driving into me, slipping in my liquids. My cunt was on fire. Almost, almost ...
He lurched. Belched his breath against my neck. Lurched again as his cream surged into me. He continued his sluicing, as I frantically tried to match his orgasm. I felt myself going. Almost ... almost. That was good enough for me. I was happy.
Later, we lay together in each other's arm for a restful half hour.
As we were putting on our clothes I asked him how he managed to accomplish that little trick of his. Most men ... I've been with come once and are through for the night. Some can do it again, but as I mentioned before, the wait is rather long.
Tony laughed as though I should know the answer.
"You're putting me on," he said.
"No, honestly. I've never seen that done before."
"I'm Sicilian!" There was pride in his voice.
"All Sicilians are like you?"
"I don't know. But it's the only explanation I can give."
"I don't buy it. I've been with Sicilians before. French, Negroes, Latin's, Scandinavian types, all kinds and I've never seen that before."
He admitted that he couldn't always do it. He had to be extremely hot, or deprived for some time, or just plain nuts about the girl.
"Is that a compliment?"
"I don't usually give away chips without a reason."
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't mention it."
"Let's do it again, sometime."
"Sure." His tone held no promise.
On the way back to the lounge we ran into Ginger. Literally, ran into her. She was coming out of the ladies room and didn't see us until the last minute. Tony pulled me out of the way.
When Ginger saw who we were she pretended not to know us and hurried out of the place.
"I bet she was here looking for you, Tony."
"Witch!"
"You must have liked her very much to be so bitter now."
"I loved her."
"Yes, you did say that."
We parted with a handshake and a smile. I wasn't sure if I'd ever see him again, but I sure wanted to. No matter how hard the prostitute, there is always someone who will get to her. I didn't even like sex and yet I wanted to see this man again. Strange world.
When I spoke to Ginger the next day she didn't say a word about our meeting. That was fine with me. Business was good and there was no need to ruin it with jealousy. That night we went out and made a grand between us.
My court date came due and I spent one whole morning on the stand lying my ass off. I stated publicly everything my lawyer told me to say. My poor husband took a verbal beating. I got the divorce on extreme mental and physical cruelty. It was a morning well spent.
Now I had a decision to make. I didn't want to stay in Vegas but the business was good. And with Ginger's connections it looked like the prosperity would last indefinitely. I talked it over with her and she asked me to stay. At least until the convention trade died down.
I said I would and then a week later reneged. The damn town got to me and money or no money (I was loaded), I decided to head for New York. I was rich and spoiled. Ginger nearly blew her top, but I held my ground. I promised to do one last night with her and that was it. I waved my plane ticket in her face. Her anger had stirred mine. I was tired of living under a threat.
CHAPTER 8
The Big Time
I SPENT ONE SUMMER AT DEL MAR RACE TRACK IN Southern California near San Diego. Here I met most of the Hollywood actors I was to meet in my career. In one night alone, I had dinner with Desi A., a visit with Jimmy D. and a visit with Victor M. Desi was drunk and obnoxious at his little ranch house. He gave me a black eye in one of his wilder moments. When I said it was rude to speak Spanish in front of other people, he proceeded to punch me. He had been speaking Spanish with a Mexican girl friend of mine named Mary whom I brought with me to his house. But he's known for his five-hundred-dollar generosity to girls on the call. He usually likes two girls for a party. He gives one girl the five hundred dollars and if the girl doesn't want to split the money down the middle, she gives the other girl whatever she wants to give her. But after he hit me, I left Mary at the party. Desi must have thought he was hitting the docile Lucille again when he punched me.
When I got to my hotel room, Jimmy D. called me and came up with a dog-food manufacturer. Would you believe the dog-food guy liked to screw dog-style. Well, he did. Jimmy was very nice and normal sexually, to boot. That is, he had no perversions, which is unusually strange considering the hang-ups most actors have. Yes, they really are weird sexually, for the most part. Of all the stories I've heard, none have proved to be an exaggeration. Jimmy and his friend gave me a yard apiece. The dog food guy couldn't climax, so he had nerve enough to call me the next night to ask me if he could come over and finish up his account! I told him very politely that I was sorry but he could not.
When I boarded the plane to Vegas I found Red B. and Sammy D. sitting in front of me. I wanted to meet Sammy because he was supposed to be good for a yard. But Red B. started rapping to me instead. He said, I heard that name you gave the airline's ticket girl. Smith! A likely name! I was right behind you in the line." Then he asked for my telephone number. Hoping he'd share my number with Sammy, I gave it to him.
I hadn't been in my hotel room five minutes before he called. Red came alone. He placed a bottle of Scotch on the table but no loot that I could see. I was still too green at this game to know that you must ask everyone, but everyone, for money in advance. I still thought that if a man was in the upper class money branch, asking him outright for cash was too gauche. What a lot I had to learn! He never did volunteer to give me money and I never did ask for it. Therefore, it was probably my mistake. But I blame him because he knew what I was before the evening was over. He was "amazed at my technique," he said. When I took the initiative, he said, "Man, you should have an apartment house paid for by now." I said nothing about the place in Phoenix I was saving for at that very moment. But I paid him back royally for not giving me any bread. He asked me to dinner as an afterthought. We went to dine at an Italian restaurant where I was well-known and much liked. When he introduced me to the owner I could scarcely keep a straight face. Every club he took me to, I knew the owner. And he kept introducing me as his girl friend. I felt this was revenge enough. Ironically, he was worried detectives might be following him because of his coming divorce from Helene. "I have to be very careful," he said. If I had blackmailed him and sued Desi, I would be a rich girl today.
Once I told Billy R. that I knew Jimmy D. to be a very nice person. He had been talking about him favorably for ten minutes. Finally, I said, "I think he's a marvelous personality. I met him in Del Mar." That's all I said: not a word more. Well, Rose flew into a rage. He actually became hysterical. "How could you even say you knew him?" he asked. All I said was that I met him, I reminded him. Billy was not to be pacified. All he could think of was my telling someone I knew him. Naturally, he never called me again. It's very strange indeed that men with their biggest reputations for liking call girls have the biggest fits whenever it's brought to their attention.
Of all the celebrities and millionaires and politicians I've ever met, the most interesting to me was Lennie B. Lennie's was truly an interesting personality. I used to see him at the Village Vanguard. One night a friend of mine brought him up to me to have me score for him. Johnny-a young boy I had picked up two years earlier-actually did the copping for him. But Lennie was very tight with belt and Johnny made very little profit on the deal. Thereafter, we saw Lennie regularly. He used to bring musicians to my house at four o'clock in the morning. He had a lot of hangups, a terrible persecution complex and a good writer who wrote his material for him. This is not to say I don't think he was brilliant. I think he was. But he was weird. He was nice too; but weird. He used to come off a nod after shooting-up, yelling that everybody was trying to kill him. He wouldn't let anybody get near him for maybe five minutes. Things like that! He stayed with me in New York a few weeks and in Miami a few weeks when I spent the season down there. We were strictly friends. We had sex only once. It was then I learned he was as frigid as I. He said he found his wife in bed with another stripper when he walked in unexpectedly at home one night. He almost lost his mind over it. He told me he had a ten-year-old daughter in L. A. Lennie used to lie a lot but I know he loved his wife, Honey. Actually, I didn't like to have Lennie around because he brought heat with him. This was the time he was being harassed by the fuzz. I have never denied being a coward. I would to stand up for my ideals and my beliefs, but not if it means going to jail. I have other annoying idiosyncrasies. I'm selfish, stingy, cowardly and I never accept a favor for fear I'll have to reciprocate. I try never to get involved. I've had such bad experiences in helping people and granting favors, that now I shy away from people and favors at all costs. I'm really ashamed, but not so much so that I want to change. On the other hand, I have a few traits I've never found in anybody with whom I've ever associated in my entire life. That is, I don't lie, cheat, steal, never beat a trick and never finked to the fuzz on anybody. And I've had ample reason to give up a few of my good acquaintances. For example one old connection of mine, Bob E., walked me to the bank to protect me when I went to deposit my case bread of $1000. He insisted he should carry it. That's the last I saw of him for two years. Why did I entrust my entire bankroll to him in the first place? Well, he came to my pad every day for a year. Many days I gave him two hundred or more and never did I give him less than fifty. He gave me a lot of bad dope, but he never beat me.
Popeye, my new connection, is an all-right cat. His bag is decent, if not righteous and he has never beaten me. Of course, I wouldn't do anything if he did. I have no old man to protect me now and haven't had an old man in two years. Sometimes I get a little lonely, but I prefer living alone to sharing my bread. I feel too set in my ways to adjust to living with anyone at this late date. And I have my son to worry about now. But the main reason I wouldn't argue with my connection is because he's already killed three people who disagreed with him. I think he did ten years for one of the killings and his brother took the weight on another one; and the third one, I don't know what happened. I would never ask him. I mentioned to him once that I'd heard he had killed a few people in his time. He mumbled something like yes, but nothing more. With Popeye you don't commence or convene a conversation. If you do, you can get in trouble. The less you say to him the better. He reads in things that aren't there. He's one of the strangest persons I've ever met. I just write it off to the ten years he did in jail. Everybody I ever met who did heavy time has come out into society a little un-glued, anyway. I do know Pop is a three-time loser. He can't afford another felony, because his are all used up.
People who live on the East Side can't begin to imagine how the people on the West Side live. When your friends are talking to you on the West Side, all they are thinking of in the back of their minds is how to beat you out of whatever money you may have. It's considered perfectly proper to beat your friend out of his money if he is foolish enough to fall into a doped stupor, or even just fall asleep. They take your television (to pawn for bread) one day and smile at you in the street the next day. That's why I prefer the East Side.
I lived on East Seventieth in a penthouse. I had contemporary furniture with a color scheme of red, pink and black. My hand-carved bar was from the Hawaiian Islands, with two big Tiki heads two feet high. The bar cost fifteen hundred dollars. The cheapest item in the pad cost two hundred-a case in which to store cocktail glasses. All my girl friends were $100 call girls. There is no doubt whatever that I was making more money than any other girl in the United States. The least money I ever made in one day was two hundred dollars. If I had enough strength to answer all my calls, I could easily clear four hundred. When I picked up this young boy, Johnny, my friend said I would lose all my money if I didn't drop him and my habit. I wouldn't believe it. I said it could never happen to me. I would never let myself go that far. I was proud of the fact that I had stocks and bonds, a good bank account, security boxes full of money, jewels, mink coats and a show pad. There was nothing I could want. Then, maybe out of boredom, or maybe because it help me quit alcohol, I succumbed to scag. Before scag, I used to go out drinking nights with my girl friend Linda.
Linda was a beautiful girl with almost no brains whatsoever. She married Willie P. After she got tired of the beatings, she divorced him; now she's back on the street. But we had some great times together. One night we went to Jilly's. I had plenty of balls in those days because I was so attractive nobody ever turned me down. So, I told Jilly we were good friends of Sinatra. Frank Sinatra was one of the few stars I never met. Jilly told us drinks were on the house and took us to an after-hours joint.
The next morning I noticed my white mink jacket was missing. I went straight to the fuzz and told them I thought I lost it at Jilly's The detective said, "Don't worry, I'll get it back for you." Sure as hell, he did get it back. I don't know how. All I know is, I remember four guys following Jilly (bodyguards, I guess) and they got rather nasty to me toward the end of the evening. I felt they wanted to do me out of some loot. That's about all I remember until I awakened the next morning. The fuzz said Jilly kept it for me because I was too high to wear it home.
Soon after this I went on vacation to Mexico by myself. My ex-husband was there with my daughter, Stephanie, who was five years old. I stayed a month with them in Yucatan and saw the ruins. I stayed in Mexico City for a week and in Acapulco for a week. I'm sure I would have enjoyed myself more if I had had a companion who spoke the language better than I. I took my daughter back to New York with me and entered her in school when she was six. She had been in school only two months when I got a call from my husband saying he had picked her up from the playground at recess time and was keeping her. He told me also that he was leaving town so I could not trace him. I shall never know how he traced her. I didn't want my husband keeping her because he had her rolling his marijuana joints. Actually, that was my least worry. What really bothered me was his maladjusted personality. He was a real danger to her-not physically, but mentally. I introduced him to a beatnik in the village about a year before and he was now married to her. They traveled all the time with no money and all the discomforts that come with having no money at all. Even my profession and habit I considered a better environment than that. That's the last I ever heard from either of them. Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and miss her terribly. Now that the doctor tells me I have an ulcer, I try not to think about it at all.
When I lived with my husband I took a job as a secretary in an engineering company. I typed and took dictaphone. It was an easy gig with good bread. Still, we lived in a pad with no furniture and slept on the floor after five years of marriage. He mismanaged all the money and would give me an allowance of fifty cents a week when I started college. We separated five different times, so you can't say we didn't try to make a go of our marriage. He was a bricklayer by trade, making top wages. But he was irresponsible-wanting no responsibilities. I still like the guy because he was nice, handsome and unconceited. But to spend the rest of my life with him, no! I'm sure I must still hate him subconsciously, for taking my closely guarded virginity. I could have sold it to the highest bidder and be married to a wealthy man today. Still, I'm sure all the burden of blame isn't on my husband. Once I had become pregnant there was nothing to do but go through with the wedding because I was still a devout Catholic who wouldn't dream of an abortion. Merciful heavens! What is that saying the Church has, "Give me your child until he's seven, then you can have him?" So true, so true.
To give you an idea just how liberal my husband was, let me tell you about a school he took me to see. He wanted Stephanie to go to a school in upstate New York that cost one thousand dollars a year. We went to see it one Sunday. It was a big farm house near Libertyville, New York.
When we walked into the front room we saw posters the kids had made and hung up. One poster read, "I will suck your pussy for 5 cents." I can't now remember the others, but they were all similar. But even here I was considered the bad guy, because it was known I dared to take money for sex. Sex was the very thing you were supposed to give away graciously and lovingly according to their beatnik philosophy. The teachers were unaccredited. One teacher had been dismissed for raping a student in a public school. Now he was teaching her and writing a book. But in spite of all this, my main objection was that the kids were not made to study if they did not want to do so. It was run on the same principles as Summerhill in England. It wasn't their Communistic philosophy that bothered me; it was their permissive attitude. The child could do anything he liked at anytime, no matter what. He was never punished for anything-no matter .how grievous or heinous the crime.
It was shortly after this that I lost my daughter through Don's kidnapping her from the playground. My only comfort was my son, Lamont. I met his father, a wealthy connection, through another connection. Lamont's father, Dick, had a Cadillac, a Continental, two plush pads on the East Side and a suitcase full of money that he carried in the trunk of one car. I dated him for a year. He used to embarrass me by paying checks at the night club with one-hundred-dollar bills. Anyone could see he was nouveau riche. But we had a good time and he supported my habit all through my pregnancy. Near the end, when I refused to marry him, or live with him in common law (for fear of security-he might kick me out!), he kicked me out. I saw him only once after that. When the baby was two years old he gave me $150 and said he'd call me later that day. He didn't. People tell me they see him in various bars and that he's making so much money he plans to open a chain of laundromats. So, if you see a man about fifty, dark-skinned, Negro, six feet tall, thirty pounds overweight with a slightly protruding stomach, it may be he. He doesn't use any drugs himself. And we never had a romance going. I just got knocked up after about a year. So, as the French say, "That's life." I saw in last week's paper the Mafia boys were holding him for $250,000 ransom. He promised them double that, then ran to the Feds with the story. Well, I always knew he had money.
CHAPTER 9
Another Day, Another $100
"FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, IT'S ONLY TWELVE O'CLOCK! What in the fuck you doing up already? You had to have that bag, didn't you? You couldn't wait. Now your old lady will have to go out this afternoon, instead of tonight. Typical junkie! Paulie, you can't sleep four hours knowing you have a bag."
"I'd nail the bastard to the cross myself. That no-good mother."
"Who, Jesus, praise the Lordie, Christ?"
"Yeah: I had the hit and the spike clogged on me. Using this old spike is like trying to stick a nail into your vein. I gotta get a new needle. Some guy on Eighty-first and Columbus has them connected to a syringe for a buck apiece. His name is Goldfinger; know him, Marilyn?"
"I know he beats everybody. He sold a lot of lemons during the last panic. You're afraid to go around that area anyway because of all the guys that hang around there to take off some dude's cop money. Funny, cause you're a hefty six-foot cat, man."
"Shit, man, those spicks and niggers around there maim their kids so they can send them out begging. None of them has a gig. I can't fight five knives at once, either," Paulie said. And before I could open my mouth, he added, "I'll get all this blood off the floor in a minute, so don't start screaming when you see it. And this nylon you gave me to tie my arm up with was so old it tore in two pieces. But at least that nigger had some righteous stuff this time. I feel it tough; and I only had three quarters of a bag. The count wasn't saying anything, but the scag was together."
I didn't say anything to that. I knew he'd have to hit his old lady now. Every time he hit her she made a fantastic scene. "Don't push the spike in so hard; don't juggle it around in my vein, man," and on and on, she'd rap. I hated to listen to this same old shit every time I let them get off in my pad. But I needed Paul for a baby-sitter since my regular sitter across the street went out to the bar with her boy friend. God knows my sitter deserved a night out. She watched the baby for me any hour of the day or night without expecting anything in the way of bread except the few crumbs I threw her. Mickey always wanted a son of her own. Now she treated my son, Lamont, as if he were that son.
Lamont looked like a well-kept pimp every time he walked out of her pad. Though he was two years old, he had a man's black fedora, long woolen overcoat, red cashmere scarf, leather fur-lined gloves, gold cuff links, gold tie clip, gold cross (which he broke immediately, finding it inedible) and white silk shirts. His black slip-on pimp shoes were out of sight. He wouldn't go to bed unless his black hat was placed beside him on the bed. This was a privilege I readily granted since it was an improvement over his desire to sleep with the hat on his head.
I let Lamont get away with a lot of things because I figured he'd have a tough enough time as soon as he discovered he was a mulatto. I wanted him to be a hip kid with liberal attitudes, politics and no hangups. I was proud of myself for the fact that if ever he saw a couple screwing he wouldn't give them a second glance, but would grab a toy or turn on the T.V. for something to do. If ever he walked in on me when I was getting off in the bathroom, I'd tell him I was taking my medicine from the doctor.
He once told my sitter he saw me get a shot in the arm just like he did from the doctor, but that I had no doctor. But the kid was so hip that whenever I went to my connection's pad on Eighty-first Street, he'd say, "Did the doctor leave your medicine here at the doggie's house again?" Popeye, my connection for the last two years, had six mongrel puppies and two older dogs living with him in his small two-room pad. Lamont was so afraid of the mother dog that he wouldn't say a word all the time we were in the room. As soon as we left he would begin speaking again. At his sitter's house he had his own little dog as well as a rabbit from Easter.
Popeye had an old lady named Sherry who looked every day of seventeen. But I heard she was twenty-two (from Sherry). She was a short, blondish-haired Irish girl and he was a tall dark-skinned dude of about fifty. She called him daddy. He called her little mama. She liked him enough to go out hustling every night in the wee hours and bring him back the bread she made the hard way. No matter what you may think or may have heard, hustling is the hardest way on this earth to make money. Not only emotionally and spiritually, but physically too; it's a ball-breaker of a gig. And Sherry did it the hardest way known to women, by walking the streets.
I put in a few weeks of this street-walking myself a few years back when I needed the line. But I hustled the downtown area where the tourist trade gathers. You can get a salesman from out of town to give you fifty dollars. The price is actually standard or average. And never do you get less than twenty-five from anybody downtown, whether they're locals or not. But on the West Side streets you get ten, twelve and fifteen dollars. The reason many girls prefer the West Side to downtown is because of the heat. There's a policeman on every block from 56th to 42nd Street. The policemen are dressed to look like tourists. They wear glasses, carry canes or umbrellas, brief cases, musical instruments, books or small suitcases. They add visual effects such as an eye patch or an iron brace on their legs to affect a physical handicap. These devices, though many times effective, are highly illegal in that they constitute entrapment, which is technically never purported (so says the police department). Worse, a girl can be arrested for merely walking on the street. Moreover, a girl almost never starts a conversation with a male. It's always the man who makes the first move. For an officer to make the initial approach to the girl is strictly forbidden because this is literal entrapment. Naturally, however, the police have to talk to the girl first or they wouldn't make many arrests. Maybe that's why they don't even bother to make conversation with the girl and just tap her on the shoulder and arrest her instead. Usually, they flash their badge and grab your arm. I had heard these stories from so many girls, but I was reluctant to accept them in their entirety. That was before it actually happened to me while walking down Seventh Avenue on my way to meet a client with whom I had an appointment. When they arrested me I screamed and yelled and attracted a large crowd while I proclaimed my innocence. Nonetheless, they literally dragged me away by my hair when I refused to assist them with my arrest.
CHAPTER 10
The Bust
WHEN THE BUST CAME DOWN I HAD A THREE A.M. appointment with a steady client of mine. I was on my way to meet him via Seventh Avenue when a tall Irishman carrying a black umbrella tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned around he produced a badge, saying, "You're under arrest." I said, "You gotta be kidding. I didn't ask you for money and I didn't even talk with you."
He said something about "Any girl walking unescorted on this street at three o'clock has to be here for one reason, so don't give me a hard time. If you do, I'll have to put the handcuffs on." Talk about a hard time! I made such a scene that an audience two feet deep materialized. Where they came from, when only a minute before the streets were deserted, I shall never know. I couldn't have cared less. I screamed at the top of my lungs, "I never asked you for money," over and over.
They literally pulled me into the car (turns out he has this partner sitting in his car). They drove me to a station house on Fifty-seventh Street between Ninth and Tenth and proceeded to book me. This consisted of twelve pages of fingerprints; They must need a lot of duplicates. Maybe Washington loses them so easily that they prepare in advance for such occasions. In any case, they finally led me to a cell with an iron bench soldered to the wall. Because it was impossible to sleep due to physical and emotional discomforts, I listened to the moans and screams of the junkie broads who had been booked earlier. But I have to admit there was entertainment here. The girls who were kicking screamed, while the unhooked girls set fire to their clothes, as there was nothing else incendiary.
At six o'clock in the morning, the matron asks you what you want for breakfast. I said I'd take anything they had to offer. She said they offered nothing, but if I had money to pay for my own food I could get almost anything. I settled for coffee at fifty cents.
At seven we left for the courthouse. Twenty girls piled into a police van with no ventilation and more steel benches connected to the walls. The bumpy ride in that van was so bad that it has actually become referred to as a well-known notorious joke among the intimates and inmates. While still suffering from this ordeal, the officer ordered me to a stool in the center of a large room and said, "Look at the X." The X was a yellow one on a background of black reading "Look Here" and "Mire Aqui". Click! A blinding light informed me I was immortalized on paper. They even had a number to put with the picture. Funny how trivia pops into your mind crucial times, isn't it? All I could think of was how strange it is that the government always deals with eight-digit numbers. Although I wanted to remember my new-found and personal number, it proved too difficult a task.
In this same room I saw a small Puerto Rican male in his fifties sitting on the camera stool with tears streaming down his face. He had on a work uniform similar to the one service station men wear. I figured it must be his first bust and he was embarrassed. Moreover, knowing how the fuzz deal with Puerto Ricans, I also figured he was innocent.
Next stop was the cell block behind the courtroom. This was the common meeting ground for the girls, sometimes known as old home week. Everybody seems to know each other. "Hey, baby, what you been up to?" "Got you again, Mama?" "China, you got bad luck as me, girl," they shouted to each other. Most of them hung out in the same neighborhoods or had the same connections. It was not uncommon for a girl to be busted as often as every other night. One girl explained to me that the reason some girls were busted so often was because of being well-known to the vice. That meant the minute they saw her on the street they merely said, "Let's go to the station." The girls even developed an indifferent attitude toward the arresting officer. In a short time their exasperation turned to mere passivity. Their main concern was extracting cigarette money from their officer. It seems there is an unwritten agreement between the prisoner and the officer that he is to give the prisoner cigarette money so that the girls can smoke while awaiting transportation to the House of Detention on Greenwich Avenue. Most men give the girls two dollars; if he gives her one dollar, he's considered a bastard. He's also a bastard if he tells more than five lies about her during the trial. The girls expect him to tell some lies in order to get a conviction. But if he says she asked him for five dollars, the girl is embarrassed because all the people in the courtroom can hear this and assume she is doing very bad financially. Furthermore, the fuzz use words that the girls usually don't say, such as "blow job." Most girls say, "We can have a party" for whatever amount, instead. The crucial point here is the blow to the ego. It becomes a prestige thing. The girls are in competition with each other so much that they tell mutual friends about these circumstances regarding the trial. These girls have to see each other every day on the street they work; therefore, it becomes more important that the officer not say too many derogatory things about them to the judge than that they win the trial. Most of the girls are Negro. Out of fifty girls, maybe four are white. Naturally, then, many girls think the police have a prejudice thing going for them because they know they aren't the only race soliciting on the streets. But downtown around Seventh Avenue there are more colored girls than white girls walking the street.
Very seldom does a girl beat a direct bust. A direct is when the officer testifies that you tried to pick him up. The judge usually believes the officer. Occasionally, the judge knows the cop is a liar and lets the girl go free. There is little need for a girl to solicit any man because most men come running up to the girl. Sometimes you wish you had a stick to beat them off with, because they crowd you in droves. This is bad because it draws a tip. The fuzz can pin the attraction and follow you home with your date. Then they walk in on you or wait until you leave and bust you. They threaten the man and tell him if he doesn't show up in court to testify against you they will go directly to his wife. They get his home address from his wallet, which they make him produce the minute they grab him. Most men become so intimidated that they'd give up their own mother. They sometimes tell the man the girl is wanted all over the country, that she's a notorious thief, a king-pin dope dealer and that he'd be helping his country greatly by giving her up. While this may sound like an exaggeration, I can only say to you that this and everything else I've said is, if anything, an understatement. Though some people may be a little hip to what's going on with the Night People, the vast majority of people are totally unaware. They are unaware that poor defendants are exploited and so-called criminals are persecuted by the local fuzz. Bails are set at prices only the big-time crooks can pay. If you steal enough money then you get a better play. If you steal only small amounts, then you're screwed. It seems to be the rule. This practice was such a flagrant abuse of justice that now they have begun to at least try to change bail procedures.
My bail was set at $1000-the most common figure for misdemeanors. Since I had long since lost all my money, I had to stay in jail. This is the big reason girls have pimps. The prime purpose of a pimp is to take his old lady out of jail if she gets a bust. It's very reassuring to know you have someone on the outside working to get you out. Some girls put money away to prepare for just these occasions. But most prostitutes who walk the streets are junkies and therefore have no money with which to bail themselves out.
At noontime the girls are served jelly sandwiches and tea. As bad as the sandwiches taste, most girls know enough to eat them, for they know it will be their last meal before breakfast the following morning. And what a breakfast! Cold cereal with no sugar and powdered milk and more cold tea. The police van arrives at approximately four o'clock to take the girls from the court to the Women's House. But once in the House, the girls must be processed. This long-drawn-out procedure consists of more prints, showers and doctor's examinations (solely to see if you're hiding dope up your vagina or rectum). This red-tape routine takes about an hour; which means the girls miss the five o'clock supper call. Though starving, the girls know they won't be able to keep the food on their stomachs anyway, because they are going to be vomiting due to withdrawal from heroin.
Advance knowledge of symptoms never dulled my hunger pains, as it did most of the girls. Despite all manner and degree of agonies suffered in the night, food remained foremost in my thoughts. Now come the brutal hours of no sleep, kicking walls, wringing sheets and shivering. You kick walls in order to dull the pain in your body, just as a person hits his arm or bites his flesh in order to dim his toothache or headache, etc. It's the old psychological gambit of creating a sharp pain in order to halt a steady throbbing one. You wring sheets because your body pours water in a steady sweating stream. Lying in a soaking wet sheet is depressing, to say nothing of uncomfortable. You shiver because you are freezing cold, no matter how many woolen blankets are enclosing you.
All this physical wear and tear on your body lowers your resistance to the point where you catch a very bad cold. Nobody escapes this cold. The withdrawal symptoms I've just mentioned are merely the overt ones. Now I'll reveal the inner, really difficult ones. The horrors can begin as late as twenty-four hours after the last shot or as early as ten hours later. Foremost is the screaming. Nobody ever kicks quietly. Oh, yes-it's impossible for any human being not to yell at this time.
The pains start in the small of your back. Your back aches all the time and your leg muscles join in the fun. Nothing, but nothing, stays on your stomach. Sometimes you are so hungry that you cannot resist drinking a glass of milk or cup of juice (both obtainable solely on the diet truck for the critically ill-in exchange for cigarettes, or favors). Within seconds it comes back up on you. But you are almost happy to have something to vomit besides bile. You gag and vomit and shit from diarrhea all night long. These symptoms go on varying in lesser degrees for about a week. Extremely lucky people find they can kick in a week and begin eating and sleeping at this time.
Recently the authorities became more humane. They now administer a medication that reduces all these symptoms and breaks the drug habit gradually rather than abruptly as in previous times. However, most girls still go through the hell of cold turkey withdrawal because many judges give stiffer sentences to junkies. A girl's report is placed before the judge, in addition to her record, or Yellow Sheet. This report indicates whether she accepted medication. If the girl received no medication-that is, if she refused it-then the judge assumes she is not a junkie. Some judges regard prostitution in and of itself, as most hookers do, merely a profession. If he is a reasonable judge, he will merely give her a fine and no jail sentence. But if he is a prick, he can give her up to a year in jail. Fifteen to thirty days is the average sentence. Once the judge sees the report stating the girl is a junkie, in addition to being a lady of the night, he throws the book at her or at least doubles her sentence. Some judges don't care, but most do; so the girl can't afford to risk taking withdrawal medicine such as dolophine.
All judge's methods of administering sentences are known to the habitu�. Therefore when a bad judge (one who gives heavy sentences) is sitting, the girls postpone their cases. If this is not possible, they become too ill to go to court, in many cases, even if it means self-affliction. One judge is known to have had a hooker girl friend who deserted him for the "bag". Another is a known alcoholic. Both these men harbor a grudge against the world in general and the "working girl" in particular. Naturally, the girls try to avoid these judges at all costs.
Since most judges believe the police officer instead of the girl, the girl usually pleads guilty. Although I didn't plead guilty, I was found guilty and sentenced to thirty days. This was the longest time I ever spent in jail and was a lifetime so far as I was concerned. They say short time is hard time and I believe this to be the truest Night Life proverb I ever heard.
One old hooker in her fifties kept pacing the floor while smoking. She drove everybody crazy. It was her first time in jail (she was given a ten-day sentence) and she was full of questions. The first rule in any jail is "never ask questions." You'll usually get a smart-assed reply or a wrong one. Jail house "lawyers" are full of misinformation. But they insist on discussing and handling each other's cases. Almost half of every day is spent discussing cases. "Different strokes for different folks" is a very apt expression, commonly used daily. This means that different sentences are given for the exact same offenses. As it's difficult to predict what punishment a judge will mete out, it's impossible to advise a defendant on what to say or how to act. Still they continue giving each other the doubtful benefits of their experience.
Most girls are given cellies, or cellmates. A few girls are lucky enough to get a cell alone, especially the known degenerates. A known degenerate is a bull-dagger who has been caught making love to a girl by an officer who reported it officially. No matter how masculine a girl may look she is still allowed a cellie provided there is no degenerate mark on her Detention House record. Some girls look so much like men it is virtually impossible to tell the difference. And there's always the sex changes. Many girls have done time in the Tombs as well as the House, due to operations on their sexual organs. The funniest thing I ever read was in a New York paper expose that said the girls were literally raped by the "jaspers". Two college girls spent a week in the House for demonstrating against the war in Vietnam. These girls said they had to fight off the advances of the lesbians. If anything, it's just the opposite. There are so few dykes that the girls vie for the attention of these pseudo-males. There is a bitter rivalry that goes on twenty-four hours a day. Some dykes have as many as five or six old ladies. Sex is the foremost thought on every girl's mind, day and night. These girls give up their entire commissary for the affection of a dyke. Prestige and ego are involved in the status symbol of an old man. Having an old man is worth ten dollars' worth of candy, cookies and cigarettes purchased each week from the commissary on the third floor of the jail. Any girl with a sentence exceeding thirty days ends up with an old man if it is in any way possible. This is due to loneliness and boredom.
Not every girl can get an old man, but every girl wants one. Every girl I ever knew in jail who hated lesbians ended up with an old man. This, because the isolation of solitude drives one insane. They have another adage containing a fundamental truth: "Time passes twice as fast with an old man." Primarily, the girls are lonely and crave affection. Secondarily, the girls are simply horny and plainly sex-starved. Many free hours in the day contribute to affairs, love-note writing and dangerous brawls. Jealousy is so prevalent that one girl dare not talk to another unless she knows her from the streets. Yes, the officers know about it. What can they do? Besides, who are the girls hurting? If anything, they seem to be a consolation to each other. As frigid as I am, after one week I found myself scrutinizing the teenagers as they passed through the library.
The teenagers lived on the floor below me. They took nothing in life seriously. Not surprising was the fact that eighty percent of the homicides were here.
CHAPTER 11
The Tourists' Tour
THE CELLS ARE ABOUT FIVE FEET BY EIGHT FEET. This is hardly enough room for two girls to live in for approximately a year. If the sentence is over a year, the girls are sent up-state to Bedford or West-field. If you see a cell with magazine pictures on the wall or embroidery on the shower curtains, then you know this particular girl is doing six months or more. Girls with less time don't care how their cells look.
Inside each cell is a toilet, a small steel table and a bunk bed. That's it nothing more. One important reason they are allowed nothing more is because the girls find ways of killing either themselves or their enemies with the most ingenious or seemingly harmless devices. If you swallow a pin, you're sent to Bellevue and occasionally given an additional charge. One girl threw a bar of soap at the ceiling light to slash her wrists with the broken shards. Another girl swallowed the rat poison that used to be in the corner of each girl's cell. No belts are allowed for a girl's waist for fear she'll hang herself. All silverware is counted four times a day, before and after each officer begins her shift, or tour of duty. If one spoon or knife is missing, all girls are locked in their cells and all work and other activity cease until the missing item is recovered. Every inch of the jail is searched. All cells are torn apart while contraband is confiscated. Almost everything, other than what girls are given upon entering (such as toilet articles, combs, etc.), is forbidden. Love letters, pens, or dishes, are enough to get you an additional charge. For minor infractions, like sassing an officer or minor brawling, you lose days. Sometimes they add two or three days to your sentence. Usually, they just release you at four P.M. instead of at nine A.M. on your release date. But when searching for silverware, they make all girls spread their legs and squat while checking their underpants.
Regular activities are not resumed until the missing article is found. Work consists mostly of laundry or kitchen duties. Almost half the girls work in the laundry. This is about the hardest job in the House, but the girls like it because they sleep better at night, having put in long hard hours at a difficult task. Blessed sleep becomes a merciful solace. Here time passes more quickly as an additional relief.
Another laborious assignment is kitchen duty. Huge pots are scrubbed. Potatoes are lumpily mashed in a vat as large as the U.S. Army's. And kitchen girls have to work seven days a week. Fittingly enough (psychologically), these hard tasks are usually performed by the jaspers.
But many girls have much free time because the other jobs are fairly easy. My cellie had a job sweeping one flight of stairs twice a day. Twice a week she mopped the stairs. Some girls work in the hospital. The hospital is a room containing some fifty beds and nothing more. No medications were given here. All the sick and injured were sent to Bellevue. Naturally, you had to be dying before you were allowed to go to an outside hospital.
Other girls worked in the beauty parlor. Much processing and amateur hair dyeing was performed here. Most girls were allowed in the beauty parlor only the day before their release. In my opinion, this is one rule by which the girls profited!
The only other place you could work was the library, to which I was assigned. This was an easy gig. I typed letters and reports and cut and numbered passes. The passes assured the officer on each floor that any girl found on her floor, other than the one working or living there, had permission to be there. This system left only a slight chance for girls living and working on separate floors to rendezvous in private. Accordingly, girls selected mates who lived on their given floor. All working hours and Sunday afternoons on the roof were reserved for mere flirtation romances, as privacy was an impossibility. Here again, the girls turned this to their advantage by choosing girls they merely tolerated in exchange for the girl's commissary. Holding hands and kiting were enough to cement a cigarette-carton contract. Later at night the girl and her cellie, or whatever other girl on her floor that she dated, would smoke the mark's cigarettes. Nobody ridiculed the mark or felt remorse because this was simply taken for granted as standard procedure.
There was enough variety in the library routine so as not to become too monotonous; and my boss was an all-right person. Mrs. Seel's sole concern was to discourage fraternizing with the teenagers who came into the library on their way to the adjoining classroom. Because most of the teenagers never attended high school, they were given brief lessons on a few major subjects to familiarize them with the world outside of the small sphere they lived in. It was amazing to learn they knew nothing of life other than what went on between 116th and 125th Streets. But when it came to the Life, there was nothing to teach them that they didn't already know, long before I ever learned it and a lot more besides. Lesbianism ran just as rampant on the teenager's floor as it did on the floors above them that housed the adults. And everybody sat next to their new or present lover at the Sunday night movie held in the chapel on the second floor. The chapel saw quite a bit of action, as a matter of fact. Everybody went to church or mass in order to flirt with and fondle their girl friends.
Other entertainment was held after the dinner hour in the recreation room. Television was this other entertainment. Just this and nothing more, unless you could find someone with enough mentality to play Scrabble. The most depressing thing about jail for me was the mentality of my fellow prisoners. Most people with any brains have sense enough not to get caught. Better yet, they live in a world of border-line illegality. They commit crimes for which they can't be punished. Charging exorbitant prices for food and rent in a ghetto neighborhood is a good example. If you don't believe it, walk into any supermarket on 116th Street. Dingy hovels, with rats crawling through the holes in the wall, rent for $150 a month on 125th Street. The landlords and merchants admit they over-charge. They say that they have to do it because of the stealing that takes place. It's the only way they can come out even, they say. Yet I think the cause and effect is just the reverse. The robbing and stealing is a natural outgrowth of the over-charging. It goes without saying that if you steal in a big way you are a hero; while if you steal in a small way, you're a bum and should be buried three feet under the jail ...
Well, anyway, after television, came shower time and then bed. The girls keep a constant eye out for who takes a shower when. Anybody who misses a shower twice in a row is the talk of the floor. These petty attitudes are typical of the lower mentality in a given minority. At any given time, a population of 70 percent Negro, 20 percent Spanish and 10 percent white can be found in the House. This percentage seldom varies. And all three races have the same low mentality.
Now it's time for bed. The singing begins. A few gospel songs or blues. And then the long and sleepless night.
* * *
"Child, you gon' miss da chuck."
"Morning, Ella Mae. Yeah, I'm not hungry. Besides, this is the only time I can get in front of this mirror. With fifty girls in this cell block, it's hard to get this three-by six-inch mirror all to yourself."
"Yeah, all that true. Da reason dey don't give us no mirr' is because they think we gon' cut our wrist with it. Yo' hair sure do look together. You the most together broad in this place. You the nicest and got the toughest legs and shape. You really some kind of out of sight ... got a smoke you can give me, gal friend?"
"Man, you don't have to run that shit, I would have given you a smoke without that speech."
"Why, girl friend, you know dat don't have nothin' to do with it. If you go to commissary, can you get me some cigarettes?"
"Baby, just cause I'm white don't mean I got commissary. I got to bum smokes myself this week. I done blew my commissary last week. And I haven't had candy since the bust came down."
"Yeah, I ain't had a pack of smoke since the bust."
"Hey, Marilyn, you gonna give me some pussy tonight?"
"Brooksie, don't pull the hair on my box. That's not funny; it hurts. Tonight I'm gonna smuggle a big dildoe in for you, okay?"
"Ha, ha! If you can get one past the gates, it still wouldn't reach this floor in one piece. By the time it got up here it would be worn to a flimsy piece of rubber."
"Hey, D corridor, I'm goin' to hit the road tomorrow. Hate to leave all you fine chicks. But I'll be glad to know how my old man is making out without me. He must be one starving nigger pimp. And I'm glad to be leaving his pig-fucker."
"Good luck and break a leg, Cheyenne. Don't come back here for at least a year."
"Girl, I'm not coming back here ever. I'm through with all that hangin' paper and shop-lifting and jostling; I'm through with that garbage in the streets. Now that I'm kicked I won't have to support this oil burner."
"I just hope you can do it. You know we all say that but the minute we hit the streets, the first thing we look for is the bag."
"Cheyenne, you won't even have a reason to use it now that your stuff is leaving for Synanon."
"All that's true. If I don't see you again, let me say it's been real. And later."
CHAPTER 12
Love That's Pain
"STOP! YOUR COCK IS CHOKING ME! MY GOD, YOU have the biggest prick I've ever seen! And I've seen thousands of them in the last eight years. It's not only long but it's so damn wide. Don't you get tired carrying all that weight around your hips? Maybe you have elephantiasis or something? Louie?"
"That's a very funny joke, Marilyn, but it's very flattering to know you think my penis is so large. They say women love big ones, but all the women I meet are frightened of it. Even girls I meet in the street hand me back the money I give them because they say they don't want to go through with our agreement. What shall I do?"
"Well, Louie, I'll tell you a secret that I've never told a man before. I hate big cocks and all my girl friends who are in the Life hate big cocks. Many square broads, however, dig them, so don't worry-to say nothing of faggots. My friend Trixie lives next door. If she lays eyes on this one she'll blow her gourd. Wait right here, I won't be a second."
"What did I tell you, Trixie, is he wild?"
"He's divine, honey, but all I can give you for him is this $20 I made a few minutes ago. You must accept it, for I am simply reeking with lust for this magnificent penis."
"You are also reeking with lush. Man, are you ever stoned from something besides shit. When you're sober, you'll be made as hell about giving me this bread."
"Oh, my dear, I indulged in a mere drink or two as a gesture of sociability. This occurred a scant ten minutes ago; therefore, I should be indulged and I should be offered something alcoholic now if you are any kind of a hostess. I need a bracer if I am to accept that lovely gargantuan member."
"You mean I should indulge you because it's after five o'clock, or your post time for lushing, right? I have a little Jim Beam some client left. Drink it fast because I have other dates besides this, you know."
"Never mind about her, Louie, you just come lie down with little Trixie here while she spreads K.Y. jelly all over that pretty penis. Oh, excuse me! I never realized I was so full of gas. I didn't mean to let go in your face. This damned alcohol has me physically off-balance. But now you can push it all the way in. That's it. Oh, God, yes, more, more, more. Shove it all the way. I love it, but I can't stand it. My bowels are breaking."
"You're not just a'shitting that you're shitting. Christ, it's all over my new spread, Trixie. Not so damn loud, you guys. My neighbors will hear. That side of the bed squeaks, Louis; get on the other side. Goddammit! Stop that yelling, Trixie. These fucking walls are like paper."
"I'm just through with my orgasm, Marilyn, so everything is all right now I am so tired. Can I rest here about an hour?"
"No, you can't, Louie, I'm expecting other clients; sorry."
"Come to my apartment, darling. Your slumber shall not be disturbed. Trixie knows how to take care of jewels like you."
"Trixie, you might take care of that dirty towel on the bed before you split. And please don't disturb anybody's wallet while he's sleeping, dearie."
"Marilyn, sometimes you are so crude and crass, you have no polish whatsoever. But, we must depart. And never fear. Come, Louis."
"Uh, I really better be going home now. I had no idea it was so late. I'll catch you another time, Trixie; bye."
"Now that Trixie is gone, I wanted to tell you I really don't like faggots. They are disgusting, really. They make me want to vomit."
"I'll unlock the door for you, Louis. Bye, now. Call again."
"You can come in now Joy and Paul; and shut that back porch door tightly because there's a draft."
"It's cold as a mother's ass out there. Since you don't need me for babysitting tonight I'm going back to my pad in Queens. You going to cope with the line you made on that last trick?"
"I shouldn't spend this money, but I guess I will. Why? You planning on spending your mother's money she gave you to pay that bill with?"
"Yeah, I'll tell her I can't find the fucking receipt. Who just called on the phone?"
"Some guy is on the corner and wants to come right up so I have to see him before I go cop. I'm pretty sure he'll see Joy with me, anyway."
"Boss! We need the bread. If I spent my old lady's bill money I don't think we could get into the house. She'd even lock the basement window so that we couldn't stay down there. And the basement is my new-found home, you know. We got a mattress down there and we use the garden hose for water by pulling it through the window. We need the water to cook up our shit with."
"Hello, Abie, how you doing?"
"Marilyn, you look prettier every time I see you. And who is this gorgeous redhead?"
"This is Joy. She lives in Queens and came into the city for the afternoon. You are lucky that she happened to be here when you called. Now you can see both of us together and we'll have an orgy. A real sex party! I bet you never had that before, did you? You'll love it."
"Well, okay, if it's that exciting. You do everything?"
"Oh yes, we do handsprings, don't we, Marilyn?"
"We are very obliging. You'll love us, Abie. Give me twenty dollars and for another fifteen you can see my girl friend too. And put your clothes on this chair."
"I'll wash off in the bathroom, okay?"
"Fine, Abie. Make sure you use only one little towel from that pile stacked besides the sink. I don't like having to wash extra towels at the automat."
"Say, you got dirty movies?"
"Pornography is an offense, Abie."
"What?"
"No. Movies are illegal. Here, let me put a sheet on the bed first. And stay on the left side of the bed, because the right side squeaks and makes noise."
"Lie down, Abie. That's right. Now, Marilyn will French you while I play with your titties; and you can touch me. But remember, no kissing on the lips at any time. Don't forget it, either."
"Oh, you have a nice hard-on. What a big cock! Give me that hot juice; let me swallow that hot cum. Let me drain it and suck every drop out. I want to taste it, all that sweet cream. Now give it to me, now, now!"
"Marilyn, those sexy words got me so excited that I couldn't hold back any longer. Where did you learn to run your tongue up the side of the prick and back down and across your lips and teeth? And was that your little finger you ran across the head of it? It felt marvelous."
"I told you I was the best cocksucker in America, Joy."
CHAPTER 13
Girls at Play
ONE NIGHT THE TELEPHONE RANG AND IT WAS A woman's voice. I was immediately on my guard because 99 percent of my business was with the male trade. She said that she had met me at a party through my friend Joe. Her voice was deep and husky and I suspected she was drunk.
Her name was Rhoda Felington, a society babe from Westchester. Her husband was in the Airlines business. They lived in the country but also maintained an apartment in the city. She was a gabby sort and since I had nothing better to do I listened to her problems.
Hubby was out of town and she was looking for a little action. I sensed as much but I let her do all the talking. Most of my contacts through Joe were for sex. It was strange because he never solicited any of it. I guess people suspected me because I was much younger than he. But I don't deny I looked the part. My clothes were always flashy and if I thought someone was looking for it I didn't hesitate to give them the eye. But Joe, good guy that he was, was completely innocent. He would have been shocked had he known what was going on.
Her apartment was on the East Side in the Sixties. She wanted me to arrive at least an hour early so she could explain things. We agreed on a price and I said I'd be there.
It was a Wednesday evening, two days after the phone calls, when I rang her bell and introduced myself. Rhoda was a real beauty. She had red hair and green eyes and a body that a movie star would envy.
The apartment was plush. She had money, there was no doubt about that. She fixed me a Scotch and got right down to business.
Her plan was so simple that I could hardly believe it. This broad was going to pay me the easiest two hundred dollars I ever made.
I asked her to repeat everything because I wanted to be sure there was no catch to it.
"Sure baby," she said. "I want you to stand in that closet and watch everything that goes on. The doors are grilled and covered with black cheese cloth. The room will be brightly lighted so there will be no problem seeing through the cloth. The tape recorder is very sensitive and will pick up everything that is said. Under no circumstances do you let on that you are there. In fact, I will lock the doors so you can't get out."
"Nothing else? You want me to record everything and that is all?"
"And observe."
"Observe ..."
"Yes, that is just as important. That's all the fun. Knowing someone is out there watching. Especially someone as attractive as you. Is everything clear?"
"Yes." I got up to take my position.
"One other thing. Take your clothes off. And please hurry, because Ginny will be here very soon."
I did as she asked. The closet was large, airy and equipped with tape recorder. She showed me how to use it. Locked me in. Took my clothes with her. As she took them into the other room the doorbell rang.
I watched eagerly.
"Ginny!" Rhoda beamed. She was radiant in her tailored pants-suit. It clung to her like a second skin, showing off every curve of her lovely body.
"Hi Rhoda. I'm not too early, am I?"
Rhoda kissed her tenderly on the cheek as she helped Ginny inside the door. She closed it and bolted it tight. "You're never too early, Ginny dear." Her voice was husky.
"I've missed our get-togethers lately. But Ralph has been so demanding."
"A little girly-play is good for the soul every now and then," Rhoda continued. "Have a seat. Here, over by the fire-where my drink is."
Ginny sat on a colonial-type lounge with bare wooden arm rests. She admired the red glow of the logs and neatness of the room. Rhoda had everything in readiness.
"Care for a drink?"
"What's yours?"
"Scotch, straight."
"Make mine the same."
"Right!" Rhoda poured the liquid into � large water glass and swooped down upon the couch next to Ginny.
"A little anxious, aren't you?"
"You will be too after you try this."
Ginny took a long swig. She made a horrible face but gulped it down all the same. "I see what you mean," she rasped.
Rhoda blinked her eyes. "I've been at it half the day. I'm just about blotto."
"You look fine," Ginny said and her eyes had that drunken come-hither look.
"Hey, that got to you, didn't it?"
"I always was a poor drinker."
Rhoda laughed. She took Ginny's hand in hers and kissed it longingly. Then she laughed again, as though a sudden hilarious picture had just crossed her mind. "Hey, want to hear something funny?"
"What? Save it for later."
"No, you'll love it. Guess who is in the hospital?"
Ginny put her drink onto the flat arm rest. "Tell me."
"Irene H.!"
"What the hell happened?"
Rhoda guffawed. "I guess her lover's horse-cock is too much for her."
"No, seriously."
"She didn't say but I surmised as much. She called this morning to tell me the news. Said she was suffering from exhaustion."
"Or something."
"But she can't really be ill. She told me all about the wonderful doctor she has. She's already thinking about putting the make on him."
"The whore!" Ginny picked up her glass and clinked it to Rhoda's. "The whore," they toasted simultaneously. Then entwining their arms at the elbow they drank heartily, almost draining then-glasses.
Ginny threw hers into the fireplace and shouted "Whoopee!" Then she collapsed against the back rest of her seat, her mouth wide with laughter.
"We'll have to visit her," Rhoda added.
"Let's!"
Ginny's mouth hung invitingly before her, the warm red lips stretched to white thinness. Rhoda's eyes took in Ginny's dress, lingering where the ivory flesh of her breasts was exposed above her blouse. Her mouth covered Ginny's hungrily. She drew her tightly to her, so that their breasts fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Her tongue sank deeply into her hot cavern. Ginny moaned with delight.
Rhoda's weight pushed her deeper into her seat and her skirt rose revealingly to the top of her thighs.
Rhoda withdrew her tongue and ran it teasingly over Ginny's lips then plunged it again deeply into her wanting mouth. Ginny's body trembled. She took Rhoda's hand and guided it to her stomach.
Ginny took the aggressive role with the tongue, giving back all that Rhoda had given her and more. She rolled it and stabbed it into her mouth, until Rhoda grasped it wildly in her lips and sucked it like a cock.
Rhoda's head made soft rubbing sounds as it worked in slow sensuous circles on Ginny's silk panties. Soon Ginny was sucking in her breath desperately. Rhoda's hand teased her a while longer, then dropped to Ginny's burning crotch.
Ginny gave a shudder.
"Steady, steady! You don't want to cream yet." Rhoda's voice was consoling. Her finger worked expertly over the panty-crotch, rubbing Ginny into a frenzy. A large wet stain covered her crotch.
"Take them off," Ginny gasped.
"I do believe you are ready. But just a while longer, please."
Rhoda took her wet finger and pushed it slowly into Ginny's mouth. Ginny accepted it hungrily, luxuriating in the smell of her own essence. Rhoda plunged it back and forth like a penis, as Ginny's lips sucked it clean.
Rhoda quickly removed her suit jacket. A thin-strapped halter was all she wore underneath. She pushed her firm orbs into Ginny's face and Ginny bit at them through the halter.
"Hey, take it easy," Rhoda giggled.
"I want to eat you."
"You'll get your chance. I promise you that."
Rhoda slipped a finger under the halter strap and unfastened it. Her shapely cones dropped from their confines. They were perfectly symmetrical, a trifle smaller than Ginny's but firmer and with wider nipples.
Ginny began to salivate. "Ooh, you're lovely." She opened her ruby lips and Rhoda pushed her nipples into them. Holding the breasts together, Ginny took both nipples into her mouth, sucking like an infant.
Rhoda straddled Ginny so that she sat on her lap. This gave Ginny a better position for her tit-sucking. She wiggled her bottom over Ginny's wet crotch, sending new shivers of delight through both of them. Then Rhoda put her finger down there again, this time slipping under the panties and finding the clitoris. She stroked the moist flesh and felt Ginny stiffen. Fire flooded both of them as they ground against each other.
Ginny sucked voraciously on both nipples, nearly insane with Rhoda's frigging. Her mouth made wet sucking sounds that almost drowned out Rhoda's labored panting. A flaming river flowed through Ginny and she felt it swirl and build at her crotch. Soon it would release in a molten flood.
Rhoda wrenched her nipples out of Ginny's mouth. With one swift movement she unzipped the fly of her pants and pressed her torrid pubis into Ginny's face. She wore no panties under the suit and her bush bristled through like a wild growth.
Rhoda knelt over Ginny's face and ground her pussy passionately over her hot lips. Lips met lips and Ginny's eager tongue entered and sluiced in the slippery wetness. Rhoda screamed a real scream as though she were in pain. Her whole body was aflame now. She surged up off the couch, forcing herself against Ginny's probing tongue. It was like a delicious, hot wiggling eel inside of her. She bucked like a bronco, smothering Ginny with her weight and passion.
Ginny slurped in wet revelry. She could hardly breathe, yet somehow that was secondary. Her mouth worked furiously, satisfying Rhoda's frantic need. And it was her need too, for her passion was building with the force of Rhoda's.
Rhoda groaned, thrusting her hips against the sucking mouth with added fury. She couldn't reach Ginny's twat from her kneeling position and that was unfair. With an inhuman burst of self-denial she tore herself away from Ginny's darting tongue and pushed her flat onto the sofa. She reversed position into a delicious sixty-nine.
Ginny accepted her cunny again and picked up where she had left off. "Do it, do it," she screamed with muffled breath.
Rhoda's lips dropped to the wet crotch. She kissed Ginny's box through the panties, forcing her lips down hard and rolling her mouth hungrily over the nub. Ginny's response was violent. She raised herself on her heels, pushing her bottom and Rhoda into the air. She wiggled and gyrated, grasping Rhoda's head with her thighs and squeezing with all of her hot strength. Eventually, she settled her ass down onto the couch again.
Rhoda forced Ginny's panties down past her squeezing thighs. She extended her tongue and tasted the familiar brackish flesh, allowing it to excite her with memories of other, equally passionate, get-togethers with Ginny. Then she plunged her tongue into the sweltering abyss and sucked with abandon.
The couch rocked and creaked with their passion. And the room echoed with the sucking and slushing sounds of the enraptured lovers. The sounds merged and built to a crescendo and the couch split a leg as the momentum of their ardor nearly shook it apart.
Ginny shuddered and a river gushed, as though a dam had broken, from her cunny. Rhoda lapped hungrily. Soon she stiffened and spasm after spasm coursed through her.
They lapped each other until their holes were dry. Then they unraveled and kissed passionately, exchanging the essence of their orgasm.
They fell asleep like children wrapped in each other's arms. This gave me time to change the reel on the recorder. And all the while I marveled at the passion of their love-making. So this is how wealthy females got their kicks. I also wondered about husband Ralph, Irene and the wonderful doctor. I wondered if I couldn't turn this whole thing into a gold mine.
Ginny and Rhoda woke from their little nap at about the same time. They stretched like two contended kittens.
Ginny smiled. "That was wonderful, Rhoda."
"Yes, it was. But then it always is. We should do it more often."
"Ralph wouldn't allow it."
Rhoda stroked Ginny's thigh with a tender hand. "Find some diversion for him."
"Hey, that reminds me. I left those two together this morning."
"There's your diversion."
"I wonder how Ralph made out. He has it bad for my kid sister, you know."
Rhoda crawled atop Ginny, pressing her stomach down hard against hers. "And I have it bad for you."
Ginny let Rhoda kiss her passionately on the lips. When the kiss was over, Ginny said, "I've got to get back."
"Back? I thought we were going to visit Irene."
"I forgot. Well, let's get to it."
"Okay!" Rhoda kissed Ginny again hard, driving her tongue deep into her mouth.
"Hmmm!"
"I knew you'd like some more, Ginny, old girl!"
They kissed again and this time Ginny took the lead with her tongue as the fires were now building steadily and she seemed to, indeed, hunger for more.
I saw their lips and tongues work together in wet frenzy, as their bodies molded together like heated metal. Ginny's nails dug into Rhoda's back. Rhoda worked her nub into Ginny's until she spread her legs wide and wrapped them tightly around Rhoda's waist. Their cunt lips came together in hot slippery moisture, grinding together with wet squishing sounds.
Rhoda's clitoris sought out Ginny's with fiery promise. Ginny felt the hard tip of Rhoda's clitoris touch hers. It sent waves of delight through her. Their bodies seemed to merge together as Ginny pushed her box harder into Rhoda's until the hot slick contact became hotter still.
Rhoda pumped her box with abandon as she became lost in a heavenly series of shuddering delights.
"Ooooh, I'm coming," Rhoda gasped.
"Wait for me. Soon ... soon ... "
"Now!" Rhoda screamed and bucked atop Ginny with renewed passion.
Rhoda's orgasm spurred Ginny and she came a second later, matching the force of her arduous lover. They practically pressed their bodies into each other as the last twitchings of their pussies died away.
"Don't go away," Rhoda whispered. "I've got another surprise for you."
Ginny closed her eyes, seemingly unaware of Rhoda's words. She fell into a deep but short-lived sleep.
She was awakened with a start. When she looked down she saw that Rhoda had inserted something into her.
"Pull it out," she screamed.
Rhoda laughed hysterically, but she did as Ginny wished.
"What is that damn thing?" Ginny asked.
"You mean to tell me you've never used one of these?"
"No! What the hell is it?" Ginny asked a second time.
"A vibrator, of course."
"In that shape?" Ginny reached for it.
It was long and cylindrical, like a cock, but a very large cock-it was sixteen inches long.
"I could never take that much," Ginny said.
"Nor I, dear. But between the two of us we could."
"I don't understand," Ginny said, with a blank stare.
"I take half and you take half. Don't tell me you've never had eight inches before."
Ginny's eyes lighted up. "I get you. But what makes it so warm and jiggly?"
Rhoda pushed her fingernail into a barely visible crack in the side. The dildo broke open lengthwise, revealing a small motor and batteries inside. Satisfied, Ginny squirmed her box into the bed and cried, "Let's try it!"
"Just what I had in mind. But first, I need a starter. Would you mind?" Rhoda knelt on the bed and thrust her box into Ginny's face.
"Of course not." Ginny gripped her by the buttocks and tongued her pussy eagerly.
Rhoda's eyes glazed with passion as she accepted the slurping. Soon she would stop them and put the dildo to work. But she was not prepared for what happened next.
Ginny, caught in her own passion, pressed Rhoda's fuming box tighter and tighter to her mouth. Her fingers were digging into the soft white flesh of Rhoda's buttocks. Then, for some dark reason unknown to herself, she plunged her index finger into Rhoda's anus.
Rhoda gave a start but made no effort to stop her frigging. She seemed to like the sensation of having both her holes worked on.
Ginny darted her finger as quickly as she did her tongue, matching thrust for delicious thrust. She reveled in the spasm she felt in Rhoda's body.
Rhoda writhed and shuddered. Spasm after wonderful spasm crashed over Rhoda's body. She gasped her pleasure as she clutched Ginny's blonde head closer to her.
Rhoda fell back onto the bed to rest. "You never cease to amaze me, Ginny."
"I have a good teacher."
"Oh, that was good."
"Ready for more."
"In a minute."
"Well, I'm ready now." Ginny started the dildo vibrating and plunged her share of the sixteen inches into her.
Rhoda said, "Don't be greedy. I have eight coming, too."
"That you do." Ginny pulled Rhoda's legs apart and crawled between them. The dildo was kicking up a storm inside her. She positioned the throbbing head against Rhoda's waiting lips and thrust forward. It sunk like a shaft into the steaming depths.
"Wooo," Rhoda shouted. She wrapped her hips high around Ginny's hips to allow for the deepest penetration. The thing was hot and hard and alive with movement. It was going to be a good fuck.
Ginny pumped her bottom slowly, passionately, until Rhoda adjusted to the rhythm. Then she increased it as both their passions grew.
What a marvelous device this was! It gave women a chance to perform like men. And it was so accommodating, long and hard-and alive.
"Isn't this wonderful?" Rhoda sighed.
"The best. Get ready baby, I'm going to fuck you hard."
"Oooh! Go, Ginny, go!"
Ginny withdrew the pego until the tip hung large between the protruding lips. Then she plunged it deeply into Rhoda. Rhoda loved it and matched her thrusts with her own, which were powerful and filled with lust. Their rivers flowed together, wetting them thoroughly and the dildo became so slippery that they could not grip it with their twats. They slid over it as though it were greased. And it was, with their ever-flowing lubrication.
Each fought for more length and tried desperately to steal an inch or two with furious grasping of their cunt lips. But try as they might, they did not succeed. They slipped and sloshed over the shaft, luxuriating in their failures as the gripping brought new pleasures to them.
And all the while the dildo grew hotter and hotter, wiggling like a live thing inside them. It was an improvement of the real thing.
The bed shook as they bucked and bucked, sucking their mouths together, ramming their pussies together with abandon. Their tongues worked in each other's mouth as furiously as the dildo did in their pussies. Waves of passion rolled over them, sending them into a near-conscious swoon.
Ginny bleated and sank her teeth into Rhoda's neck. Rhoda screamed in pain and pleasure. Ginny pumped wildly, groaning as though demented. Rhoda hung on, prolonging her ultimate pleasure a moment longer. Then, when she could stand it no longer, she released in a torrent of spasms and bucking, which almost threw Ginny into the floor.
"Ooooooh," Rhoda groaned.
Ginny sucked the small wound she had made on Rhoda's neck in a forgiving passion. Rhoda kissed her nape in return as the peak of their delight fled, leaving them trembling with the last quivers of their earthquakes.
When Rhoda let me out of that closet I tried to talk her into making this a regular thing. Hell, it was easy money and just the kind of set-up I was looking for. Two hundred bucks for sitting around and watching two people making love.
Rhoda rolled her big eyes. "No chance, sweetheart. I change voyeurs as often as I do partners. Don't ask for an explanation, that's the way it is. Maybe I'll call you again in six months or a year, but don't count on it." She led me to the bedroom where my clothes were.
I thought she might have designs on me and she must have read my mind because she said, "Not tonight, I'm too tired. And I pick my lovers from my own set. Get what I mean?"
Yeah, I got it. "I got you, Rhoda. Now how about my cash?"
"Get everything?"
"The recorder ran the whole time."
"Good. How did we look?"
"Sensational."
She smiled. "Maybe next time we'll take movies." She went to a drawer and counted out some bills. When I dressed she slapped them into my hand and said, "Forget you were ever here."
I took the money and scrammed.
CHAPTER 14
Crazy Sex
I WAS ALWAYS ON THE LOOKOUT FOR A GIMMICK. Something that would make the job a little easier but still bring in the cash. A prostitute is basically an insecure person and always worries that someday her business will be gone. I was no exception. I lived in dread of the day the "well goes dry"-an expression used in the trade.
There was a guy named Trixie who lived in my building. He was a tall, wiry Negro about my age. Transvestism was his specialty. He got a lot of the crazy trade. I thought that might be the gimmick I was looking for, so we discussed it at length one afternoon. We often visited each other and had become close friends. It was easy discussing intimate things with Trixie.
I asked him what he thought of a bride club idea.
"What?" He sat upright on my bed.
"If I could find a fivesome of old ladies. Meeting with them on a weekly basis, I could make as much money as I do now. And I bet they'd be appreciative."
"They'd have to be loaded."
"Of course. I couldn't do it for nothing. That's the point."
"You wouldn't like it." He tossed the long tresses of his Caucasian wig with the grace of a woman.
"Why not?"
"Old women are the bitchiest."
"If they pay right, I can take it."
"They're a lot of trouble."
"Sounds like you've had experience."
"That's why I say they are lots of trouble. I had this one old bitch, rich, but senile as hell. I was getting a hundred a throw, but I ditched her after a while."
"She couldn't have been all that bad."
Trixie blessed himself and looked to heaven. "Bad, she was the devil's disciple. And she wouldn't come for nothing. I had to work on her for hours. One night I thought my jaw was going to lock on me."
"Most women are like that."
"True! Just the point, so stay with men."
"But it would be safer."
"And more work."
"I don't know."
"And aggravation."
"I wonder why it is, women take so long to come."
"Don't be square."
"You just said ..."
"They fake it, honey. Can you honestly tell when they pop?"
I had to think about that for awhile. "Not most of the time."
"Neither can I. So they fake it and end up coming two and three times before it's over. You work too hard for your pay with women."
"I never thought of that."
"Well, think about it. Stay with men. Now, if you're looking for some safe gimmick I think I can help you."
"I'm listening."
"You heard me talk about Armand."
"Armand? The chauffeur?"
"Yeah. That's the one. Well, he's out scouting around again."
"What does that mean?"
"You mean you been in the city all this time and never heard about Armand and his employer?"
"No!"
"Square!"
I threw a pillow at him and missed.
Trixie giggled in that high-pitched wail of his and clapped his hands together as though in a spasm. "Get your things on, baby. We're going to meet Armand."
Within two hours we were walking down Central Park West. It was nine o'clock and dark and very cold. The cross town wind knifed through our coats and under our dresses. We shivered, but we kept on because we did not know exactly when Armand would appear.
Trixie was adorable in a fox-trimmed wool coat, with matching hat. With his make-up, long eye lashes and feminine gait he had more sex appeal than I had.
Finally, Trixie spotted the car. It was a long black Chrysler limousine. Armand spotted Trixie right away and pulled to the curb. He was a young, square-jawed Frenchman, who had somehow managed to lose most of his accent.
"Is she all right?" He asked Trixie about me.
"Of course," Trixie shouted at him and pulled me inside the car with him. There were two other girls inside.
"I must be careful," Armand added.
"Same deal as always?" Trixie asked Armand.
"Same deal."
Trixie rolled his eyes. "Never a dull moment."
The other girls never said a word as we drove through the park to a fashionable East Side neighborhood.
The townhouse was the most elegant I have ever seen. It smelled of upper-upper-class wealth. You know, the traditional stuff. It was four stories high, with Ivy climbing its bricked surface. Ornate railings trimmed the balconies and front entrance. As we approached, Armand pressed a button on the dashboard and a garage door roared open. We pulled inside and it closed behind us.
Armand led us into the house, through a semi-lit hallway and into a large dining room. The carpet was like thick grass under our feet. The furniture was like something out of a museum, very old and expensive-massive and sturdy, polished to a fine gloss. The paintings were austere and the faces seemed to stare at me, but I did not let that bother me. We sat for about ten minutes until Armand returned.
"All of you have been here before, so you know the rules." He looked at me. "Do exactly what the others do. But under no circumstances can you laugh. If you ruin the effect in any way, you will not be paid and you will never be allowed to return."
I nodded in agreement.
He led us to another hallway. This one was in complete darkness, except for some dimly lighted arrows along the walls.
"Follow the arrows," he said.
We did, with me in the rear holding on to Trixie's hand. "Hang in there," he said.
Suddenly, an organ began to play. It was very loud and grating on my nerves. And of all things, it was the Funeral March.
Trixie must have felt my hand twitch. He gave me a hard poke. "Don't you dare giggle, or none of us will get paid."
The urge left me just like that.
We followed the arrows through the darkness. The corridor seemed to be never ending. My heart was beating fast and I felt dizzy. This was crazy!
At last I saw a light up ahead. It was soft and seemed to be coming from a large room. The doorway itself was immense and done in exquisite woodwork. The scent of flowers came to me. There seemed to be a lot of them. The organ music grew softer.
We queued up at the entrance and entered as a group. I was shocked to see a corpse in front of me. It was sunk deep into a casket, surrounded by myriad flowers. The guy was dead, there was no doubt in my mind. I had never seen such a pasty face before. We inched closer and looked down at him.
The music stopped! We all tensed. Son-of-a-bitch, if that corpse didn't sit up in the coffin. The girls screamed their heads off, but I was the loudest. He fumbled with his fly and produced an erect penis. Three quick pumps with his hand and it spit all over the place. We screamed some more.
Then the corpse lay back down and crossed its hands on its stomach. Armand came in and quickly led us away. As we left the house he put an envelope into each of our hands. When we got under a street light I checked mine and found two one hundred dollar bills inside.
I looked at Trixie and he was laughing like hell.
"What gives?"
"You wanted a gimmick. There it is. Go back any time you want to, if you can take it."
"I heard of perverts before but ... "
"Save it, I know what you're going to say."
"How can a guy get his kicks that way?"
"He does and that is all that's important. Don't try to figure it out."
A horn blew and we saw Armand drive by. He waved at us.
"He's going for another crew. One night I kept changing clothes and went back three times."
"I don't believe it."
"Yep, that's all the old boy can take."
"The poor bastard."
"Ha! He's lucky he's got the bucks to have his kicks. Think of all the poor slobs in this world who don't have chauffeurs and limousines and money enough to satisfy their madness. Don't feel sorry for him, save your compassion for people like us."
"I mean he's gone."
"We're all gone, baby, in our little ways. Life would be kinder to me if I didn't wear this skirt. That's my sickness."
"I've never seen you so serious."
"Forget it. Happens once in a while."
"At least it's steady work."
"If you can take it. Me, I can't. Even Armand gets fed up once in a while. He quits, takes an ocean cruise somewhere before he can return. They say the old man goes nuts when he isn't there."
"You seem to know Armand well. I mean it's obvious you are old friends."
"Say it. And sometimes lovers."
"I suspected as much."
"Acts masculine, don't he. Just a front. He loves to run his hands up a slender thigh and find a cock at the end, instead of the usual. Actually, he's pretty nice. We understand each other's hang-up. That's why we get along so well."
Trixie removed his scarf when we got into the taxi and I noticed a thin scar around his neck. I asked him about it.
He smiled. "When you are strange, you meet strange people."
"It looks bad. Does it hurt?"
"Of course it hurts. Think you could have a window cord pulled tight around your neck and not have it hurt?"
"That's dangerous stuff, Trixie."
"You're telling me. This cat used to behave himself. Now he's getting wilder and wilder. I don't know if I want to see him again."
"Kicks from a window cord?"
"He likes to inflict pain. He never hurt me before. Just a few tugs and he'd orgasm. We'd sit in the car and eventually French each other. I don't find it as weird as the coffin bit. But now I'm getting scared."
"That's one of the reasons you're out tonight."
"Right! I need the cash and the weird bit is the best-paying, but I want it safe. No sense getting knocked off."
"Right."
We got off at my place and Trixie came in. He made some calls and lined up some weird stuff for later in the week. Trixie has more contacts than anyone I ever met.
The first date was one he could not accompany me on. It required us to undress completely and of course Trixie would be unmasked. So I went alone, being assured that it was safe-and lucrative.
It turned out to be a nutty evening. I went to this address on the West Side. It was a luxury apartment building, door man, rich carpeting-the whole bit. I was greeted by a maid at the door. But she left before the festivities began.
There were about six girls there, plus a few others who were friends of the client. Drinks and sandwiches were at our disposal and it seemed to be shaping up into a very nice thing. I didn't know what to expect and since the host had not shown himself there was no real way of knowing. We laughed and talked and someone told a few bawdy jokes. The drinks kept coming and by the time the host made his appearance we were looped.
He was a rotund man. No more than five feet, seven inches in height. His bulk made him look much shorter. He was almost completely bald. It was difficult to judge his age because he was so fat.
He sat in an easy chair like a serene Buddha. A bathrobe and slippers were his only attire. I assumed he had nothing on underneath. When he clapped his hands everyone came to attention. We were instructed to remove all of our clothes, which we did. And then the fun began.
All of the women took their clothes off, but only the six prostitutes, which included me, took part in the action. First he had us dance in a slow, ballet-like manner. We did the best we could. None of us were professional dancers. He didn't seem to mind our clumsiness. In fact, our dancing got him hot. I watched his eyes sparkle with lust. I hoped he would not choose me as a partner. No problem; I found out later that the other girls were there for that purpose.
We danced more of the ballet stuff and then he had us chose partners and dance together. Guy Lombardo played in the background. We danced closely and intimately. My partner rubbed her breasts into mine. Thinking that this was what he wanted I responded by kissing her on the neck.
"Stop that!" he screamed.
Everyone stopped in their tracks.
"Just dance," he said and the harshness was gone from his voice. He waved his hands like a dance-band conductor.
We danced a little while longer until he clapped his hands and Guy Lombardo went off. One of his girl friend's brought out some red feathers. They looked like writing quills, with an inch of bone at the front and a long sweeping feather in back. Each of us got one. Someone switched the record and the place was filled with drumbeats.
"Dance!" he said.
We looked at each other, not knowing what to do. Then one of the girls began hopping around like an Indian and the rest of us followed.
"Good, good, good ... " he kept repeating.
Then he stepped out into the floor and gave us instructions on what to do with the feathers. It was the most absurd thing I had ever heard of. But no one objected. Prostitutes are good sports that way.
Well, we stuck the feathers in our assholes and danced around like Indians on a warpath. Urged on by the frenzied beating of the drums and the applause of our small but attentive audience, we danced for some time.
Our fat host became quite aroused and he took one of the women right before us. We all watched as we danced. I think we were curious if he could get it in. A man that fat is usually severely handicapped in the screwing department. But his date was lean and she wound her legs around him and somehow they had intercourse.
When he finished he climbed back into his chair and viewed the proceedings. He was sweating quite a bit and his attendants dabbed him with towels.
Someone put the record on back to the beginning and we whooped and danced through another playing. At last, it ended and we were paid off and allowed to go home-two hundred dollars richer.
Trixie howled when I told him about it. But he assured me that I had not seen anything yet.
"Wait until tomorrow, baby." He laughed some more.
"Nothing would surprise me. Nothing!"
"Wait! You just wait! And I hope you have your creative thinking cap on."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You'll see." And he went on laughing.
I spent an uneasy night in bed wondering what he had in mind. As I said before, the weird scene pays good, but it makes you wonder. How far will people go short of Roman Games?
The next evening Trixie arrived in his convertible. It was chilly and snow flurries were predicted but the top was down as usual. Trixie was all dolled up-coiffered wig, extra-long eyelashes, chinchilla coat, etc. He was some looker and I always made a point to dress very well when I was with him. What a blow it would be to have a man choose him over me.
We drove to West End Avenue in the Eighties. I nearly got pneumonia before we got there. As we pulled in front of the hotel snow was beginning to fall. I was glad I had brought my mink along. A doorman obviously impressed by our furs came running to the car. He let us out and an assistant parked the car. The pavement was all torn up and we were taken to a side entrance. For a moment the sight of cement bags and worker's tools reminded me of home. Someone was always building something and when I married Don, I practically lived with the tools of the bricklayer's trade.
The elevator took us to the penthouse. Our client owned the building. Trixie explained the details on the way up. He was the owner of one of the largest shipping companies in the world. Sex was his hang-up and he was notorious for his tastes. The problem would be to come up with something unique. This man has tried everything at least twice and he was extremely bored.
Alex was congenial, short and blonde with a toupee that did not quite match his regular hair. He was very nervous and kept watching me with eyes that seemed to plead and threaten at the same time. This guy was a wreck. I let Trixie do all the talking. Apparently Alex knew all about him and felt secure in his presence.
"Any ideas?" Trixie asked.
"That's your department!" Alex snapped.
"Don't get up-tight. I mean we don't have to stay." Trixie put on a real feminine pout. He always stayed in character when he was dressed up.
"No, stay. Please stay."
Trixie gave him a cold stare.
"I've had such a difficult week. You wouldn't believe it."
"I believe it."
Alex poured us both a drink of Scotch and led us to some comfortable seats. "Relax, let the booze warm you."
"I didn't say we'd stay," Trixie said.
"You'll stay," Alex patted a lump in his jacket pocket.
"We'll stay," Trixie said. Money always turned him on.
Alex told us his story. "I had this couple over, man and wife. Young, about twenty-six."
"From New Jersey?" Trixie asked.
"Yes, I must have told you."
"The real creative ones."
"Well, they were for a while. But as I was saying, they came over here this week and just moved in. They said they had something special cooked up, so I agreed. But even I have my limits."
I settled comfortably into my chair. He seemed to trust me more now. At least he wasn't watching me as much.
"These kids had this crazy idea. I mean, it's all crazy, but this was the craziest. First, they bring in two pet crocodiles. Little guys, about ten inches, but with teeth. Know what I mean."
"Oh no, don't tell me, I can guess."
"Yeah, well I nixed it right away. I mean I saw the sexual bit, but those things can do permanent damage."
I told him that I had three of them as pets when I was a kid. That was the first time I had spoken. He looked at me in a strange way.
"I threw them out," he said. "I don't ever want to see those crazy bastards again. Who you?"
He had said it all in one breath with just about the same inflection all though. I almost didn't catch his question. "I'm Marilyn."
He paused to consider. "Well, I hope you can come up with something. I'm horny as hell." He picked up his glass and walked from the room. "Let me know when you're ready," he said over his shoulder.
"He's nuts," I said to Trixie.
"No, he's not. He's got money. That's the difference. Now think of something."
"Let's beat him with a belt."
"Don't be square. He was going that route when he was ten. Think of something original."
I was stumped. "You think of something."
"Know those kids he was talking about. The ones from Jersey?"
"Yeah. What about them?"
"They were creative. They thought of about everything."
"Why did he fire them?"
"They'll be back. A good husband and wife team like that are hard to find. He's angry now, but he'll invite them back. They did some good work for him."
"Like what? Maybe that will give me some ideas."
"Well, one thing they tried was cute. First they coated his body with honey. Then they poured puffed wheat over him. That was it."
"No sex?"
"No."
"They didn't blow him or anything?"
"No, not necessary. He came just like that and it was over. Naturally, they had to clean him up."
"He paid them?"
"I don't know how much they got for that job. But in six months with the old boy they made about five thousand each and a Cadillac to boot. Not bad for teachers from Jersey."
"Not bad. Let's think of something."
"Let's have another drink."
Trixie's deep voice contrasted with his costume. He looked so much like a girl that I treated him as one. Every nuance of speech and dress was there. He was a real cunt. But when relaxed he often let his voice slip into the deeper registers. It reminded me of some of my husband Don's friends. Everyone in the bricklaying business had a deep voice. That thought stuck with me.
Trixie was getting looped. He was working on his third Scotch. "Another time all they did was paint his body with Mercurochrome."
"Cliche."
"They drew dirty pictures."
"We can do better than that."
"I'm getting drunk."
The timber of his voice brought it home to me. "I got it."
"What?"
I told Tribe my plan. He loved it. He ran into the next room to borrow fifty bucks from Alex and we went downstairs. We were both ecstatic.
The tools were still there in front of the hotel. The doorman knew Trixie and for thirty-five bucks agreed to help us carry the stuff up. There was a mixing box, three bags of cement, one wheel barrel of sand and an assortment of long-handled mixing devices. We set up shop in the bathroom.
Alex's bathroom was bigger than some apartments I had been in. There were three Johns about four feet apart and three basins. The tub and shower were immense, at least five by five and three feet deep.
"Better go down for another bag of cement," I said to Trixie.
I nearly died laughing when he came back with the bag thrown over his shoulder, the loose powder sprayed all over his dress and face. He looked like a bricklayer in drag.
We didn't tell Alex our idea. It was to be a surprise. All we told him was to take his clothes off and wait for our signal. It took us about an hour to mix the cement.
Neither of us knew how much sand and water to mix. We just filled the tub part-way and threw the stuff in. We mixed it with garden hoes and shovels. It was back breaking work. The stuff was all over us, all over the floor. Trixie's dark wig was covered with white powder. We took turns mixing until we were exhausted. Sweat rolled off us like rain in a downpour. I felt like my back was out of joint.
Finally we had a thick gray soup in the tub about two feet deep. We added more water and thinned it a bit.
"Ready?" Trixie asked.
"I think so."
"You're the expert."
"Hardly."
"Let's try it."
Neither of us were too certain.
"Better take our clothes off. In case we fall in."
"No," Trixie insisted. "He only likes me in drag. Keep yours on, too."
Trixie went to get him.
Alex came into the bath like an expectant bride. His eyes were wide and his hands were clasped in front of his chest with joy. He didn't speak but let us undress him. Without complaint. It seemed necessary for him to pretend that he was a captive.
We got him nude.
"Now remember, Alex," Trixie warned, "once you get in there you got to stay put."
Alex seemed hypnotized. He nodded. A silly grin covered his face. Trixie led him to the tub. "No, wait," Trixie said, "Better go to the bathroom first."
Alex obeyed like a little boy.
Trixie and I conferred. "This stuff could kill him," Trixie said.
I didn't really know but I felt obligated to be optimistic. "No, it's safe enough. We'll take turns keeping awake. When he wants out it will be no problem."
"Suppose he doesn't come out. We're going to have a statue on our hands."
"No, he's not that crazy. Anyway, we can't back out now."
Alex hopped over to us. We helped him into the tub. As soon as his toes hit the cement he got an erection. He giggled and thrashed his feet through the soup. Trixie sat him down and he played in it like a child. A look of serene happiness came upon his face.
"Bury me, bury me," he said.
He slouched down and we covered him to his neck. We felt the room to discuss our plans.
"How long?" Trixie asked.
"How the hell should I know?"
"We don't let it harden."
"No, that would cut off his breathing."
"Give him four hours?"
"That sounds about right. But we must keep a close watch."
We checked in on Alex. "How goes it?" I asked.
"Shhh! I'm going to orgasm."
I was exhausted. The drink made me sleepy and I drifted off. The last time I looked, Trixie was back at the Scotch bottle.
I remembered distinctly the dream I had. I was mixing concrete in a basement and the mix was so heavy that I could not move my hoe through it. The foreman was a large man with massive forearms and biceps. He kept yelling at me to hurry it up. I tried harder but I couldn't make any progress. The foreman yelled, "You can't do anything right. What are you, a pervert?"
I began to cry. I threw the hoe into the soup. It stood straight up like a spear. The foreman kept yelling, "you can't do anything right, can you?"
When I awoke Trixie was shaking me by the shoulder. His wig was awry and there was a worried look upon his face.
"Get up, get up, it's past five."
We had gotten to the apartment around ten. Alex was in the tub by eleven. We should have been up at three to get him out of there.
"Alex is stuck. I think he's dead!"
I didn't want to believe these words.
Trixie pulled me into the bathroom. Alex was in the same position we had left him. His eyes were closed and his face was very blue. The cement had changed color from a dark gray to an olive tone. I touched it. It was damp and very hard.
"Quick, a hammer," I shouted.
Trixie brought the edge of the hoe down hard and the surface dented. We had a chance. The cement was not completely hardened.
I slashed away with a trowel. Flecks of cement sprang up into my face. "Hurry, hurry!"
Alex's eyes quivered under his eyelids.
"He's alive. He's alive," we both shouted. And we cut at the cement like madmen.
Alex groaned.
I slapped his cheeks hard. A red tinge came to them. "Feels so good," he said.
The cement broke away in large chunks. Soon we had his chest area free. He seemed to breathe better. We cut away at the lower section.
Alex woke up. "Stop it, stop it, I'm okay."
I couldn't believe my ears. "Don't listen to him," I said.
"I don't hear a word," Trixie said.
We finally freed him. His skin was bruised and flecks of cement stuck to him everywhere, but he was free. We pulled him to his feet.
"Stop it, stop it, I'm fine."
"Sure, sure, Alex, now behave," I said.
We stood him in the middle of the room and tried to get the rest of the cement off him. Most of it broke away easily, but in some spots we had to scrape with the trowel. Hunks of flesh came with the cement.
"Oooooh, I love it," he squealed at one point.
It took us two hours to clean him up. We put him to bed and Trixie wrote a note for the maid. Trixie assured me that she'd have enough sense to call the doctor.
"Thank you, thank you so much," Alex said as we pulled his bedroom door closed. It was incredible how the experience had turned him on. I had never seen anything like it. Not even junkies got that high.
I slumped to the sofa too tired even to think of going home. Trixie bedded down on the floor. We slept until the maid came in. I opened one eye to her. She didn't seem surprised to see us. She entered the master bedroom and returned shortly with our payment-ten one-hundred-dollar bills.
When she entered the bathroom we heard her groan but she made no complaint. I guess she was well paid, too.
I never visited Alex again. He scared me. Eventually he would have pushed us to such extremes that we might have killed him. Trixie agreed with me and as far as I know he never went back either.
But the creep in the casket was a good client. I went back there three or four times a month. The pay was good and the risk slight. I never spent more than fifteen minutes in there.
"Crazy sex" is a good thing as long as you don't let it get out of hand. I had this one guy coming to the apartment regularly. All he wanted to do was kiss my knees. I didn't even have to take my clothes off. But he insisted that the knees be bare. He'd play with himself while he did it. I couldn't watch him for any length of time. He gave me the creeps. Usually I'd just sit on the sofa and read a magazine while he kissed away. Occasionally I'd smack my lips and say, "Naughty, naughty boy." That always got him hot. Shortly after he'd orgasm and leave. He paid me the same money as everyone else. I'll never figure him out. He was young, late twenties, nice-looking and I suspect had cash. He could have his choice of girls. How did he ever acquire such a hang-up? I never asked. You learn that quickly.
People have often asked me about my crazy experiences. But when I relate them no one believes me. They think I am making them up. But no storyteller in the world could invent such tales. The fact is that human beings are the most perverted species on this earth. Ask any prostitute.
And they have the strangest rationale for their behavior. There was this college professor who always came with his 1930 report card from the fourth grade. He'd have me say, "You bad boy, now you have to be punished. Take down your pants." Then I'd spank him hard with my hand. And then we'd both pray. Halfway through the prayer he'd orgasm.
Now I am an open-minded person. But I could not contain myself much longer. Finally I broke my own rule and asked him how he came to be like this.
He took offense. "I'm not crazy, you know. I go to the psychiatrist every week. I'm trying to change this pattern."
He never came back.
There was another guy who would just drop in at almost any time of the day or night. I never knew his name. Middle-aged, bald type. He'd always say, "I was just passing by. Thought I'd drop in and say hello." He always had his bag of bananas with him. He'd have me hold a banana between my legs while he sucked on it. It gave him a quick climax. I asked him why he didn't get himself a young guy instead of me.
He said, "What the hell do you think I am, a queer?"
It doesn't pay to ask.
Byron was a slender youth of twenty-three. He came every Monday. I couldn't bear to charge him more than twenty-five bucks. We'd strip nude and go to bed. He'd lie on top for no more than a few seconds. Then he'd jump up and hurry into his clothes. Before I could light a cigarette he'd be gone. He explained to me one day that he didn't want to "come" because then his wife would find out if he wasn't able to lay her that night.
I never tried to figure it out.
One of my girl friends pleased an elderly and wealthy lady by defecating on her coffee table. It was a weekly date. She thinks the woman drew designs in it, but she's not sure. She refuses to surmise beyond that.
I never could defecate in front of an audience. I tried several times. There was this Austrian who insisted I do it upon his chest. He lay on his back in a bath tub. I squatted over him and tried real hard because the money was good. It was no use. He became quite angry. I thought he might hit me. I saved my fee by agreeing to give him an enema. It would have made more sense had he given me one, but as I said before it doesn't pay to question these guys.
There is always that great risk that something awful will happen-either to the prostitute or the client. Usually it is the prostitute who gets hurt, but it can work both ways. However, when the client is hurt it is because of something he brought upon himself. An elderly gent on the East Side had a heart attack while two girls were "tripping him around the world." The girls had a hard time explaining that one of the police. Another was rushed to the hospital with a needle through his penis. Alex, the shipping magnate, who liked my cement work so well, came down with a terrible skin infection. It could have been worse. I keep thinking how he might have suffocated in that tub. A wealthy socialite had a falling out with lesbian friends and was stabbed. A college student acquired third degree burns on his penis and testicles because he insisted on being burned with matches.
However, the prostitute is almost always the recipient of violence or harm that comes from these things. Often the client is embarrassed after it is all over. He needs a scapegoat to vent his anger on. The prostitute is handy. I have seen the result of beatings which made me sick. A girl friend of mine came home once with every tooth in her mouth gone. She was a bloody mess. Another was tied up and thrown nude into Central Park in the dead of winter. And once in a while a girl is found dead. It is hard to surmise why these horrible things happen, but they do. And one thing is for sure, no one gives a damn if a prostitute gets hurt.
I played the "crazy sex" very seldom and as I mentioned before, the money was terrific. But one night I got such a scare that I dropped that facet of the business completely. It was about three A.M. when the phone rang. I was sound asleep. A cold voice on the other end informed me that Trixie Lee was on the critical list at Bellevue. At first the name didn't register. I told them they had the wrong number and hung up. But when the fog lifted I called back in a hurry. They said that Trixie had been attacked and was barely alive. He had asked for me.
I rushed down there in a cab. I hardly recognized him. He had apparently been out in "drag" because the lipstick was still on his lips. He was unconscious on a table, a sheet up to his chin. A deep purple wound circled his neck.
"Found him in the park," the doctor said, "looks like he had been choked with some kind of cord. Perhaps from a Venetian blind." The doctor didn't know if he would live or not.
I'm happy to say that three months later Trixie walked out of the hospital a healthy man. He will always carry that horrible scar, but as he joked one day, "the mink stole will cover it." His trachea had been damaged along with some nerves in the neck. He carries with him a permanent twitch which is not attractive but the important thing is he is alive.
I intend to stay alive. And since that time I have avoided all dangerous situations. And "crazy sex" is something I never fool with anymore.
CHAPTER 15
Reminiscing
DID YOU EVER STOP TO THINK, OF ALL THE CRAZY bastards you've met in this life?" I asked Joyce.
"I try not to; man, I think I'm gonna write a book someday. Only nobody would publish it because they'd say it was too fantastic to be credible."
"All that's true," I said. "Remember that crazy cat from Naples who wanted us to squeeze his nipples with our finger nails? His nipples were two inches long, so he must have been doing this for years. Then when I went to hit him I hit your hand instead and you called me a cock-sucker. That made us both break up altogether. We went hysterical laughing and the poor guy thought we were laughing at him. He was blind-folded 'cause he didn't want to see himself getting hurt."
"Joyce, I like the one that lay beside you in the bed and reached over to touch your kneecap with his index finger and then you said, 'naughty boy, don't do that,' and he'd pop right away. Kept all his clothes on, too. Both of you were fully clothed."
"Yeah, but I missed the shit-eaters. Never had one, did you? No?" Joyce shook her head no.
"My girl friend Carol had a famous forties star who used to have you shit on her chest and on a glass coffee table while she lay beneath it. She had that masculine voice and was always gay, too. She used to draw designs in the shit or make a sandwich and eat it. Then a guy here in New York wrote that famous song, you remember. He eats the sandwich after it's been in the refrigerator all night, or else he gives you an enema. But he only likes guys. I touched his piano once at his pad and he started screaming at me not to touch it. I tried to shit on a guy but it's impossible. I have a hard enough time pissing on them. It took me a year to be able to relax enough to do it. You said you still can't do it, Joyce."
"Nope, I can't relax the sphincter muscles. But remember the guy I had who used to buy a bag of bananas and come over to my house and tell me he was just passing by (and always with bananas). He wanted me to hold the banana between my legs and he'd get down and suck on it and climax. I asked him why he didn't just get some young guy instead of me and he said, 'What do you think I am, a queer?'"
"For clinchers, let me tell you about Byron. He came up every Monday. After he handed me twenty-five dollars, he took his clothes off, jumped in bed, lay on top of me for one split second, jumped right up and threw his clothes back on. He didn't dare to come because his wife would find out that night if he wasn't able to lay her!"
"Doesn't everybody live this way?"
"Oh hell, yes!"
"As a matter of fact, I did write a story about a trip I took, Joyce. See if you ran figure out which girl I am, because unlike the story, I was alone; there was no other girl with me. But the rest of the story is completely true."
Joyce proceeded to read the following:
"'She fucks like a black bitch,' that's what he said about you. I wish somebody would pay me a compliment like that. Where did you learn to grind your pelvis clockwise with a cock inside you? I try but I lose my rhythm by trying too hard. How in hell did you meet Satin anyway?"
"Lanie, I never learned to screw good until Satin taught me. I was walking by the Copper Rail bar on Seventh Avenue when Satin spotted me. He said, 'You're gonna be mine come with me.' I didn't even answer him. I just blinked at him and looked away. Then he stood in front of me and without a single word picked me up and threw me over his shoulder and walked away. I began kicking and yelling but his friends were the only people around and they just laughed. He carried me two blocks into a two-room pad one flight up. When he put me down, he said 'I told you you was gonna be mine. I been watchin' you workin' the street every night. And I know you need a manager. So here I am. You can live here with me and bring your clients here. My old lady died last week. One of her tricks caught her in bed with me. I told him I was just a trick and left them alone. Before I hit the street I hear her screaming. I go back and see him standing there with a knife. I run for the cop on the corner and he takes him away; but my old lady's dead; blood all over everything, man. Yessir, twenty-seven knife wounds.'"
"When he says this, I feel sorry for him. And I'm kind of lonely; and best of all, he's got no other broads in his stable. And I can see why they call him Satin. He looks like pure black Satin sheen. But now I'm disillusioned, I make a grand a week and he spends $900 on the horses. So I've made up my mind. I'm leaving. Are you coming or hot? You've got nothing to lose and everything to gain. You say you left L.A. 'cause you didn't want to be a witness in a pandering case. The $200 you got left ain't even gonna get you a pad in New York. But we could take a tramp steamer and live off our looks. Are you game? A good looking broad doesn't need money. She can get anything, anyplace if she plays it right. And we can hitch-hike."
"Yeah, Sherry and we can get killed; if not by strangers, then by Satin. But I'm willing to take a trip about now. I just hope we go first-class more often than third."
They left that night. After Sherry packed a small airlines valise and took her $200 stash from inside the toilet paper wrapper, the two girls split to Jersey. They didn't want to spend their money until absolutely necessary; but they wanted to get far enough away from Satin to feel safe. A pimp who discovers his "lay" absconding invariably beats her to within an inch of her life.
Sherry knew a trick in Jersey who flew to Agua Caliente race track on weekends. Many people do this, but they usually live in California, not Jersey. But this cat was eccentric as well as rich. Mexico sounded like a good place to go at this time of year. September in Mexico is heavenly. The trick was happy to take Lanie and Sherry to Mexico. Of course he thought they were coming back with him or he might not have taken them in the first place.
Harry, the trick, gave them $50 apiece to spend on the horses. But Lanie wouldn't spend it and she wouldn't let Sherry spend hers.
"See this race? Tell me who won, Sherry."
"Why, Eight won, Two placed, Three showed."
"Yeah. Now drink your gin and tonic." Sherry did so.
"Now, Sherry, look at the board again and tell me what you see."
"Why, Three is the winner. Four placed and One showed. Hey! Why did it change; they can't do that!"
"They can't, but they do. Every race. They say it's a mistake or a foul. But we won't get caught. You can't win out here. Now see that guy out there with the binoculars? His name is Whitley. He's our man. We've leaving here with him. He buys a hundred tickets and throws them over his head to the crowd. He has a great deal of money and owns many horses."
They approached Whitley with gleaming teeth and sparkling smiles. He was half tight and accepted them into his circle as he offered them drinks. Unfortunately, none of the many tickets he gave the girls held winning numbers.
After the races he suggested they go to a "great cat house" in Puerto Progresso.
"Why, that's the other side of Mexico," Lanie said.
"Yeah, but we can fly up in a couple of hours," replied Whitley.
Within minutes they were on their way to the airport. Sherry was certain this was the closest brush she'd ever had with death, as the taxi driver stopped for neither man or beast. He merely honked the horn along unpaved streets at 80 miles an hour. Then Sherry saw two large eyes peer into hers from the other side of the windshield. She screamed, but it was too late. They crashed and rolled and wobbled, then recovered and started weaving again. Minutes later the cab was under control. They stopped to inspect the damage. The windshield on the driver's side was completely out and the front end was damaged, but miraculously, everyone was relatively unharmed. The driver was sobbing his heart out, saying, "Madre Dios, forgive me; I did not mean to kill him."
"What the fuck is he crying about," asked the drunken Mr. Whitley. Lanie said, "These Mexicans cry over all tragedies and minor mishaps, even when their wife has a cold. He's crying because he killed the bull that stood in front of our car. It's so damn dark we couldn't even see him."
Then traffic became snarled and the truck behind them got out to see the dead bull and all seven members of the family cried for the dead bull.
Without further mishap they reached the airplane. They drank Carta Blanca beer while the stewardess sprayed the plane with a powerful bug-killer. She explained it was standard procedure and highly necessary if they didn't want to be eaten alive.
When they landed they met a man Whitley seemed to know, who handed them bottles of Carta Clara beer and then drove them directly into what seemed to be a jungle. All the while Lanie and Sherry wondered what they were doing in a cat house full of broads.
The cat house was a one-story arrangement of connecting one-room adobes with an inner patio that served wine and beer. The girls decided the price was right at sixteen pesos for the night, for these were surely the ugliest girls they had ever seen. One was fat, all where short and one had freckles everywhere. And this was the most luxurious of all the "houses" in many districts.
Sherry and Whitley went alone into one of the rooms. There was one bed, one hook on each wall and one basin full of water. Above the bed was a crucifix and that infamous picture of Jesus with the blood dripping from his heart that all Latin's seem to relish.
They undressed quickly and hung their clothes on the hooks that Sherry later learned were really hammock stakes. Only then did she appreciate the bed. Fucking in a hammock, even one made for two people, is a highly technical art acquired only by the most inflamed passions and determined lust.
She lay down on the bed just as the most beautiful brunette she'd ever seen walked through the door. "This is Yolanda, the owner and manager; she's twenty-two years old and she likes girls," he said.
Sherry liked her immediately because she could tell the girl admired and appreciated her. Unlike other girls, she was not jealous of her or envious from what Sherry could see in her expression. She dropped her slacks and threw her blouse on the end of the bed. She wore no bra. Instantly she was on Sherry, running her tongue inside her thighs, on her nipples and around her breast. She ran her tongue inside her thighs most of the time because this made Sherry scream and shiver with delight. Finally she ran her tongue inside the hairy mound between Sherry's legs. Her clitoris begged for more. She was moaning now. Impulsively Sherry grabbed her legs and pulled them to her face. The girl could speak no English and Sherry could speak very little Spanish, but she understood what she wanted and obliged her by turning upside down so she could screw in sixty-nine position together with her. They both made wet, lapping, slurping sounds as Whitley jerked himself off standing over them.
"Tell me when you're coming so we can all come together," he said. Then he pissed over the two asses as they rose up and down in the air. "Oh, my God, I'm coming," he said as he shot a thick spray of white hot cream over the asses of both girls. Then he took his finger and trailed the scum along the asshole of first one girl and then the other as they both shot their loads simultaneously.
"Holy shit, that was great," he said. Yolanda motioned for Sherry to follow her into the next door. This room had a bath room. Next to the toilet stood another toilet with no lid or seat. Whitley told her it was called a bidet. Yolanda stepped into the shower stall, motioning Sherry to join her. Just as Sherry put one leg in, she glanced at the wall next to Yolanda and screamed. Whitley laughed as Sherry grabbed her clothes and threw them hurriedly on, happily forfeiting the shower. Whitley said, "They are immune to scorpions here because they have been bitten so many times."
When she rejoined Lanie she was still shaking. "How was your little scene, good old-fashioned sex or perverted, Sherry?"
"The sex was boss; it's the scorpions I don't dig. Do you know they have to shake their shoes out every morning when they awaken to make certain they don't step on them?"
* * *
They all slept in hammocks that night. Much cursing was heard as various members of their party rolled over only to find they had hit the ground with a large thud.
In the morning Whitley gave the girls $250 apiece and suggested going horseback riding. Lanie had been on horses five times in her life and was scared every time. But she refused to let anyone know of her fear. The stable boy fell madly in love with her and was determined to give her his best horse. And that he did. She hadn't been on the horse one minute before he took off like a bat out of hell.
"You dirty, no-good cocksucker, son of a maggot-infested whore bitch," she yelled. "Stop, please, stop." On and on he ran for three miles. "Please, God, I'll repent and mend my ways. Just give me one last chance. Don't let me die or scar my pretty face. It's my only asset. Or just don't let me be crippled for the rest of my life."
Suddenly the horse shot around completely and doubled back at the same breakneck speed, never stopping till he reached the corral gate.
When Lanie jumped down, she felt she'd been split in half or that she'd been fucking for days. She could walk no way but bow-legged. The stable boy gave her a dirty look and muttered something in Spanish to Whitley. "What did the motherfucker say?" "Oh, he asked me why you didn't like the horses." "Me, I like horses; they just don't like me. Today makes the second time one ran away with me. Years ago a boy had to grab the reins on my horse or I probably wouldn't be here today. They just knew I'm scared of them. Another time my horse refused to follow the trail. He went up and down mountains and valleys and stopped to eat and paid no heed to me. I met another rider about an hour later and he helped me find my way back. I'm through with horses."
Whitley said, "I saw a donkey screw a girl in a show in Cuba during Battista's time. They used to have special houses for each perversion. One house had young girls all dressed in nuns' robes. Another had young girls sitting in school desks; they had pigtails and ribbons. Another place was very classy. It cost a yard and you could only screw them in the ass because they had to save their cherry or else no Latin boy would marry them."
Lanie said, "You know that fat blonde at the cat house yesterday; she says to me in broken English that she lived in Brooklyn for six months and had a baby by some Italian guy she married. She got homesick and came back to Mexico. She says she's only been in this small town for a week and she's going back to Acapulco because she didn't know it was this bad here."
"Well, I think it's bad too, so let's split."
"We accept."
The two girls checked into a hotel room at The Mission Valley Inn for $12.50 a day. They gave false names and false addresses, for no reason at all, to the registrar. This seemingly insignificant incident was to cause them more trouble than either of them ever dreamed.
They spent the day at Del Mar race track, spending no money but meeting nice rich men and exchanging telephone numbers. That night as they returned to their rooms, two detectives approached them, saying they were under arrest. The charge was grand theft. They said they didn't want any girls around their sailor boys because the girls would give them a dose. The girls protested that they didn't even know San Diego was a sailor base and that they had money so they couldn't be vagrants. But it was plain to see that these officers of the law were highly jealous of girls that could afford not to work and that they (the detectives) couldn't afford even to buy.
They said they would hold them for seventy-two hours and run a venereal test on them. In order to hold them, they charged them with grand theft, because they said they thought it was grand theft to charge a man money when he "wanted a little pussy."
There were no beds, just mattresses on the floor. The food was one loaf of bread and one pack of Spam lunch meat. If you didn't reach fast, you didn't get any bread. Most of the girls were "wetbacks," crossing illegally into California from Mexico. They pulled and cursed and raved in Spanish all day and night. One big bull-dagger grabbed Lanie late at night, but decided to let her go because of the lack of privacy, I imagine.
Lanie said, "This reminds me of reform school. I did three months there. Then I broke down an iron door with the other girls. We ran over rats and laundry bags in the laundry room in order to slip under an iron gate. We were just thin enough to get under. We ran for hours before we found out we were running in a damn circle. Finally we saw some lights on a road and followed them. It was a gas station. The young attendants were just closing and said they would drive us into the city. Then my father took me to his friend's house. Her name was Angie and I stayed with her for a year. The other girls went to their friend's house, but I heard they were all sent back.
"If you ever want to make sure your daughter turns into a lesbian, just send her to reform school. They said I was lucky because this wasn't the real reform school; it was just Good Shepherd Convent. The next step was reform school. But I don't believe it was any worse. When my mother was there, they jammed an iron rod up your cunt. If you bled, you were cherry. When I was there they just used a gloved finger; they didn't break your cherry.
"Then they quarantine you in isolation for two weeks. They put Lysol in your bath and on your hair. Must have a lot of lice brought in.
"There were a few colored kids and whites from all over the Rocky Mountains, Utah, Wyoming, South Dakota and Colorado. There were some Indians too, but mostly Mexicans. Everybody in the joint was gay. Kids nine years old used to fuck each other with toes and coke bottles and tongues. But there was no privacy; it was all done in front of each other because you had no choice. You either did it that way or not at all. Everybody slept in a big dormitory with lights on all night. So they just put the blanket over their heads while everybody watched the blankets move up and down. Many of the girls were horny because they had been getting it steady for years. Many had two and three kids apiece; they started screwing at twelve. Some girls wore crew cuts or duck tails. But the nuns were worst. I lost a good gig in the laundry 'cause I wouldn't fuck a sixty-year-old nun. She put me on checking laundry lists till I failed to cooperate. Then she put me right back to the fuckin' ironing board.
"That ironing board is the worst gig in the reformatory. You stand on your legs seven hours a day ironing uniforms from restaurants and clothes from priests rectories all over the city. Those priests were filthy. And their pants and shorts all had 'come' stains and dirt ground in them. Some don't look like they wipe their ass when they take a shit. We didn't get paid, but the nuns got paid for this laundry. I got paid off with varicose veins and hemorrhoids from sitting on the concrete floors. There were no chairs for us. "The food was a cock-suckin' shame. We ate potatoes for lunch and dinner both; and if you didn't finish the potatoes at lunch, you better not spit in them 'cause they pick up the leftovers and re-serve them for dinner. The girls' idea of fun was to put egg shells in the mashed potatoes and cups of hot chili pepper in the beans. Even the Mexicans couldn't eat beans that hot. The kitchen girls didn't give a fuck because they didn't have to eat it."
Sherry said, "Christ, now depressing. When we get out of here let's fly right up to L.A."
Lanie said, "They'll let us out in the morning. We should be in Los Angeles by noon. I may never leave there again!"
* * *
Joyce finished reading and looked up. "Well, Marilyn, I recognize you as Lanie. You have so many names now it's confusing," Joyce said.
"I took my trip alone. But those stories about Sherry are true. You know Sherry by the name of Nancy, from Seventy-second Street."
"I knew I recognized the story. And I've called you by your stage name of Georgia so long that I can't get used to Marilyn. One thing I always wondered about was how you met Johnny."
"People often wonder how I ever got hooked up with a young boy like Johnny who introduced me to scag. I've always made it a practice to live alone and have no pimp or boy friend. I enjoy living alone. Maybe that's why I turned down so many proposals. I always used other excuses, like they were too old or drank too much. But I know I can't marry a man just for money. I tried that once when I lived with Carl at his hotel in L. A. I was drunk at least half of the time. So when John A. proposed I knew I couldn't accept. In this line of business you get a good many proposals. Maybe I'm being too choosy. But if I can make a good income why do I need a husband? I do worry about old age, so maybe I will have to get married, yet.
"Johnny was the only boy friend I ever had. I lived with him about two years. I met him at a party I went to with my girl friends. He had such a handsome face that I was immediately attracted to it. I used to date only extremely handsome boys. He was holding a match to a bottle cap. I asked him what he was doing. He told me he was cooking stuff'. He put it in his vein and asked me if I wanted some. I said no, but that I would sniff some up my nose. I liked it because it was very relaxing. Meantime, my girl friend had picked up a boy and we all found ourselves on the elevator going to the street level in the party building. There we were; the four of us. Nobody said anything but we all went back to my apartment. My girl friend lived next door. Johnny made love to me like an experienced man. He gave as good a French as my husband. Imagine how shocked I was to learn, two years later, that he was only fifteen at the time! I was six years old than he, but I had missed my teens. I never had many dates in my high school years so maybe that's what drew me to him subconsciously.
I tried to Greek one time with Johnny to see what it was like but I had to stop because it hurt me too much. He said it hurt him a great deal too. That's the first and last time I'll try to Greek. Our sex life dwindled as we used more dope. Soon we seldom held hands. We took a trip, then, to rekindle the flame, but Johnny stayed in bed with sleeping pills while I did the night clubs in Miami with my girl friend. Lennie B. stayed with us in Miami a while but he wasn't much company so I flew home. A few days later Johnny came home.
I was making $200 each and every day and he was spending every penny on all his friends. He treated them all to five-and ten-dollar bags of dope. I didn't find this out until he got busted for his generosity. It seems he gave a bag to an undercover narcotics agent. Well, I spent a fortune for a lawyer for him but they still sent him to Elmira. I wasn't allowed to write to him the three years he was there. But I remained faithful to him. Being faithful in the Life is not exactly the same as it is to a square (a square is any normal person who is not in the Life). That is, I was allowed to have boy friends but once Johnny came out I would be expected to go back with him. But I never had another boy friend. Johnny told our connection Larry to look after me. After I made the headlines in the News, my landlord wouldn't let me back into my pad, so I went to Larry's place. He said I could stay with him that night. I said I was so grateful that he would be welcome to stay at my pad anytime he needed to. He must have taken me literally because he just stayed with me after that. Poor Larry. I think I laid him five times in the year we were together. He used to lay other girls on the bed while I read a book. When Johnny got out, Larry had to leave permanently for Chicago due to a warrant. So it was possible for Johnny to move in now; but I had a taste of freedom and I loved it. I wanted to be alone. Johnny was making good money on burglaries now and felt he didn't need me or need to help me. Until he started getting busted too many times, that is. Then he wanted to come back. I refused five times before I took him back. We stayed together just two weeks. I told him he had to leave and we parted on good terms.
He's still robbing houses. But now he has responsibilities. He married a girl with two kids; she's a girl he went to grade school with. She doesn't want him to shoot dope and he very seldom does. At least he doesn't have a habit; he just chippies.
* * *
I was a thousand dollar a week call girl. That was the sentence heading my story in an August issue of Confidential Magazine. Yes, it's quite true. I made over $300,000. Most of the celebrities I've mentioned in this book are also mentioned in Confidential. But the magazine doesn't mention how I lost most of my big-money clients behind drugs; or how I'm finally coming back again, thanks to the methadone program. I never hit bottom but with a little work I could have.
I'm waiting for my daughter to call me. She called me last night and said she would try to come out to visit me this summer. Don talked to me for a minute, too. He said they may drive out from Frisco with some friends. He says he just got divorced. He wanted to go to bed with different girls and his wife didn't approve. Well, I could never go back to him; we have nothing in common.
It was just a few months ago I buried my little boy. I left him with the baby sitter across the street from me. She was better than a mother to Lamont. She had not other children, so he filled her life. I was to pick him up at eight o'clock for nursery school. When I got there I found the apartment burnt completely out. A neighbor gave me the name of the hospital where my sitter, Mickey, was staying. When I talked to her at Roosevelt she said the baby was overcome by smoke. I went then to the morgue where they confirmed this. Thank God, he wasn't burned. Mickey had burns on her back and arms; her mucous membranes were all black and she could hardly speak. I know I can't blame her because she is blameless. The firemen say they have no idea how the blaze started. Whenever I think of my son I become mad, not sad. I'm angry that he should be snatched from the earth when I wanted him here with me. I had great things to show him and do with him. Yes, I guess they are mostly selfish reasons. Maybe I have come a long way, because I didn't cry at his funeral. One of my professors once told me if I could keep from crying at a loved one's funeral, then I truly cared for the person unselfishly. People only cry at funerals because they are feeling sad for themselves. They are sorry that the person won't be around for their own benefit. Therefore they are selfishly sad. Still, as I say, I get mad. It seems like such a waste to destroy my "Bug." He knew I used the word as a term of endearment.
I don't think Confidential mentioned that I go to school every few years. I went to the University of Southern California when I was on the coast. But entertaining clients and doing homework too is almost impossible. When I was on hearing for that pandering case, I brought all my books with me so I could cram at lunch time for my finals. I came out with three A's, one B and one C (anthropology) so it was worth the study. I really think I could happily be a professional student all my life. But you can't work and study too. Of course, you can; but your grades will suffer. I even had to go with hangovers. Having a dope habit was not conducive to study, either. Nevertheless, this is what I had when I went to City College of New York last year. I was studying Chaucer for no particular reason except that I liked it. Since I had to major in something, I chose English; but I love all subjects except math and higher level science. It's not that I don't like these subjects too, it's that they don't like me. I'm sure it all goes back to that fucking graham cracker and milk tin. Remember in the fourth grade they gave you the cracker and the tin cup of milk? Well, we had math first thing in the morning; then the snack. This meant my adrenalin wasn't functioning well till afterward. I needed the damn nourishment. After that I went like gangbusters. They even moved my seat after the snack each morning so I could sit with the smarties. Long division was the start of my woe. I got an A an Chaucer and decided to stay home reading on my own. So far I managed to read at least two books a week. I think I've read every damn mystery that was ever written, as well as the bestsellers.
Whenever I had to turn in a thesis in college, I would always try to find a sexual aspect of the subject in order to make it more interesting to me. In Art History I wrote a thesis on Roman erotica. Whenever they wanted to praise a person or a god they would raw or sculpt the figure and then exaggerate the nose and penis to about a foot long. Those Romans were quite imaginative. During these times the courtesan was regarded as the equal of any politician; and her views and advice were often sought. Great treasures were brought to her in such abundance that she was often the wealthiest person in the town. Maybe that's when I should have lived!
Am I ashamed? Of what? Making love, never! I can't think of anything I've done for which I should be ashamed. Never hurt anyone intentionally. Never cheated at poker.
I've only spent a few weeks in jail but that was enough to convince me I don't want to go back. I've only made love to a few female clients but that was enough to convince me they are too demanding and insatiable. I prefer a married man anytime. Fortunately, he's always in a hurry. I've learned never to leave magazines or even conversation pieces around. Everything is geared to getting him in and out as quickly and efficiently as possible. I give them their choice of cloth towels or paper towels and most of the time they'll take paper towels. This, too, becomes a timesaver.
I think prostitution is one of the most important professions in the world today. I'm lucky; I've never been beaten, I've never run into any madmen. My clients were always referred by good, reliable men, most of whom owned their own businesses. About five years ago a young Greek boy gave me clap. Fortunately, I was seeing a man named Jim, seven days a week. So, Jim was able to tell me almost immediately that something was wrong. One time some guy called me up to tell me he had crabs. I told him that was interesting because I didn't have any. I wonder if that crazy bastard really believed he got them from me. I really am surprised that in all these years I've only had clap once and never had syphilis or "crabs." I also missed hepatitis. I really don't know what to attribute my success to except maybe the fact that most of my clients are steady; that is, they don't screw other girls besides their wives. They swear they don't pick up street walkers. I'm inclined to believe them because where would they get the money and the energy?
If prostitution were legal, venereal disease would diminish considerably and men would need fewer psychiatrists. This is the most urgent and basic of my contentions. If you could see all the young boys I have had who cannot "climax" in any way except by masturbation, you would be amazed. They are so used to it they cannot change now. That is the main reason something must be done. There is a large "underground newspaper" drive on to encourage masturbation without guilt. This is excellent but it should not be encouraged to the exclusion of regular and frequent copulation with a heterosexual. That is why fifteen-year-old boys who masturbate regardless of social mores should be allowed the services of women and this with the sanction of society. Most young boys can't afford an abortion when their girl friend becomes pregnant. They shouldn't be forced into loveless marriages and jobs that promise no promotions merely because of new, uncontrollable and natural animal drives. The advantages of legalized prostitution are endless. There are no disadvantages that I can see. The prices wouldn't change. And they legalized gambling in New York. So, who knows!
* * *
Life is finally looking beautiful again. I've been on the methadone program at Beth Israel Hospital for two months now. I love it! Maybe I'll stop taking that, too, in a few months. Now that I'm making money again, I was able to get a new pad on Riverside Drive in the seventies. The rent is $350 a month and worth every penny of it. I had a great time furnishing the two rooms. I got a modern lamp in the shape of a circle and a groovy bar with two stools. It's great to be able to have money to spend on furniture again. I spent $10,000 on the East Side pad I had. I'll probably do that here, too. It's so good to be able to have money to spend again on a movie or a restaurant without worrying about getting home in time to make "cop" money so you "won't be sick."
Last night I went to the movies. Today I bought an air conditioner. Tomorrow? Who knows! But right this minute, I love the whole damn world.
