"Get yourself the hell to a whorehouse ... lots of whorehouses!" Professor Falstaff Q. Merkin shouted at me. "Be a favorite customer ... a confidant of other customers and the girls therein. Fuck with them ... discuss with them ... hold the mirror up to life. Drink with them and listen well, for in vino Veritas, there is truth in the wine!"
His bright blue eyes flashed, his white hair waved in the breeze as he threw his head back and gazed at me down his red-veined patrician nose, his naturally florid complexion went even redder, and the muscles at his throat stood out. He was obviously agitated. I feared for his heart. I also wondered whether his kidneys could stand the strain.
I blanched a little bit myself. But was it really my fault he was all worked up? All I had done was ask the old professor what investigative technique he wished me to pursue in order to determine how direct the relationship is between the human drive to make a lot of money and the very human drive to have a lot of sex.
It was my assignment as part of a huge research project on sex habits that the old master sexologist was directing, the culmination of a lifetime of planning and work. To get his financing, Dr. Merkin had moved several mountains, persuaded one of the largest educational foundations and, it was rumored, seduced a great many rich widows and orphans.
Now he was hiring a number of his students and sending them off for a year's travel and investigation. I had leaped at the opportunity, believing it to be my chance to get together original material from which to write my Ph.D. thesis and also to make some important contacts in my chosen profession.
I also hoped it might improve my own human situation. Frankly, I'd gone into Sexology to strengthen my ego and my libido. A cocksman I was not. That was my trouble. As a matter-of-fact, the whole idea of intercourse scared me. I knew all about it, had taken all the biology courses. I liked-I like!-girls. But there was something about exposing the body-my puny body-to a member of the opposite sex that always made me freeze up and go rigid everywhere but in the right place.
I'm not exactly a coward. I picked up a Silver Star in Vietnam. And a couple of Purple Hearts. But I also received the Good Conduct Medal. It was my hope that becoming a professional expert on sex would rid me of inhibitions that had kept me a virgin into my late twenties.
"You know what you are, young van Dieman? A stupid son of a bitch!"
I blanched some more. I was in for another of "Smirkin' Merkin's" biting lectures. I excoriated myself for letting him get me alone in his office.
The professor's vocabulary was very explicit and terse, not at all mine. "No shit, young man, you are without a doubt the best student I ever had when it comes to memorizing details and getting it down on paper the way you heard it, but you just don't seem to have any first-hand knowledge or instinct about sex. I'll bet you've never fucked a woman."
He laughed at my change in color and the way I pursed my lips when he said "fucked."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, young fellow. Should I have said 'intercoursed'?"
I made no answer directly, but tried to change the subject and get myself out of the spotlight. "It is my belief," I said, "that many of the so-called great studies in our field are based on highly exaggerated testimony and are therefore biased and unreliable. They remind me of barracksroom ... er ... bullsessions. Had most of the servicemen I used to know really done what they said, it would have shortened their lives considerably. Or, at least, there would have been a number of sexual organs worn short from the considerable friction. I don't trust formal interviews or questionnaires, either. I'm sure Kinsey, Masters & Johnson, Joseph LeBaron, and the others would have developed a much more true set of figures had they been able to extract the brag from the testimony."
"True, too true," said Falstaff Merkin, scratching his crotch. "Everyone seems to believe he must pad out his performance record. Those men-and women-who talked so freely would probably have told more truth and less bullshit had they been wired for lie detectors. I always knock off twenty-five percent for wishful thinking. That's why my average is so much better than most."
"I suppose you're right, professor," I said, "but it won't be easy for me. Maybe you ought to give this assignment to someone else. I'm hardly the brothel-that is, whorehouse-type. No one in my family is. I wouldn't know how to act."
"Oh, cut the shit, van Dieman. It's no different from the way you do it in the bedroom. That is, the way most people do it in the bedroom. I'm not so sure about you. But you'll catch on quick if you remember it's for science. Think of it as a crusade. Submerge yourself in the spirit of sexology. You can learn a lot in whorehouses. Everything there is the bare truth; no one covers up. Toulouse-Lautrec used to hole up in a bordello in Paris to get close to the elements, as I recall. You'll be right there on the spot when the subject-maybe even both parties-are most apt to talk freely without exaggerating. You'll go down in history, along with Kraff-Ebing, Havelock Ellis, Forberg, de Sade, Masoch, and Thomas-Manville! What do you say? Will you do it?"
I shrugged off the inhibitions of a lifetime. My prejudices seemed to melt away like snow in the sun. My blood was stirring. I was extremely aware of certain new urges possessing me. "I'll do it!" I almost shouted.
Dr. Falstaff Merkin smiled and his eyes burned with a fire that must have burned there always in his youth. He ran his long sensitive fingers through his long white hair, then twirled his long white mustache. "It ought to be real fun for you, too," he said, "a labor of love, so to speak. Bless my soul, if I were twenty years younger, I'd go along."
Suddenly he frowned as if struck with a sudden thought. "You've got to let yourself go on this assignment. You'll never get anything out of this work-as a man-if you don't involve yourself bodily. And cut out the prissy medical words from your vocabulary while you're on this assignment. They're so much crap-roadblocks to total involvement with your subjects. You've got to call a cunt a cunt and a prick a prick-or a schmuck, if that's the way you hear it."
He smiled upon me beneficently, like a prophet sending out an apostle. Then he said, "Go out and good luck be with you. As the fellow said, 'return with your shield or on it.' "But don't bring back that maidenhead of yours!"
THE BRITISH EMPIRE BUILDER
The big Englishman looked funny dancing with the whore.
He was dancing well up against Big Eva with one hand on her rump under her skirt, and they moved slowly and with great dignity around the floor. His old school tie (or regimental tie, I never asked which) was knotted meticulously and his cordovan benchmade shoes were buffed to the highest gloss possible. But he looked funny-because that was all he wore.
That and a wide, self-satisfied smile.
I caught Big Eva's eye and waved to her. On their next circuit of the dance floor they stopped at my table and she introduced us to "The Lord."
He nodded politely in response to our greetings, but said nothing. Big Eva leaned over the table and whispered hoarsely, "Ain't he really something, this Britisher? We've been upstairs five times already, and he's had me frontwards, backwards, sidewise and otherways. Yet-look there-he's all ready to go up again."
To all of us customers seated around the table it was very obvious that "The Lord" was ready for another love bout. He was endowed like a stallion, and his penis, or rather prick-I must remember Professor Merkin's instructions-was rigid as a ramrod.
At first he did not appear to be aware of his hard-on; he merely stood there blinking politely and smiling. Soon, however, he noticed we were all staring at his prick. He, too, glanced down to the point below his belly at which we others were focusing.
"I say now, Eva," he said, "it's time again. Shall we go upstairs or would you rather have it down here, in a chair?"
Big Eva blushed! "Well, sport," she said, "it's your money and you're paying enough to be entitled to almost any kind of service. But if it's up to me I'd just as soon not have the audience. These guys might try to turn it into a gang bang if we started anything down here. Let's go upstairs."
"She's quite right, 'Lord,'" I leered. "You'd do a lot better upstairs with that thing. It wants long and easy using to get the best out of it. Down here someone is liable to trip over it ... if you don't. Why don't you just take Eva upstairs and do that thing, and meet us back here in about an hour for a drink?"
Eva suddenly laughed heartily. The big Englishman had reached down and wrapped both hands around his dick. It was no overlapping grip. Eva added her right hand around the forepart that had been left uncovered. Then all that was visible was the glans.
"Say, look at that," said Big Eva, "doesn't it look like a giant Bing cherry?" She chuckled cheerily. "A bang from a Bing-and there ain't no cherry involved. I guess we all know that."
"The Lord" looked down at me and grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Righto, old cock, I'll take Eva up and diddle her once or twice. Maybe thrice. What comes after thrice? Force? Not hardly! Well, anyway, after that we'll be back down here for that drink."
He released his hold on his penis and threw both arms about Big Eva's middle. With a mighty heave, he lifted her off the floor and swung her high. As she came down, her skirt flew up. She wore nothing under it. The hairy crotch we all knew so well was no surprise. What did surprise us-and excite us-was the way in which "The Lord" managed to bring that crotch down and ram his upright organ into it before the skirt could flap down and prevent him from making a clean insertion. Big Eva squealed in rapture.
"Well, ta for now, friends. This one's for the Queen," said the rampant Britisher. And, still joined to Big Eva, he ran lightly up the stairs.
I sat there for a long time, thinking over the events that had brought me to one of the finest whorehouses in Toledo-a twenty-four-hour-a-day operation-where I was gathering first-hand data for my treatise on the relationship between sex drives and financial success.
I had set out with high hopes that systematic infiltration of whorehouses would provide the most reliable data-as against selection of sample tycoons for formal interview, with its consequent risk of overfleshed testimony from those who had to make every one of their sex experiences sound like Casanova's best night. And I remembered my vow to not let my ignorance of matters sexual show-to appear always calm, even indifferent if necessary, but never, never naive!
Mymentor, Dr. Falstaff Merkin, had planned my enterprise. But at that moment I wasn't so sure.
It had taken a lot of persuasion to get the madam, Fanny Milton, to give me the run of the parlor without having to spend every night with one or another of the girls. I had melted her heart with the sad tale of my lonely life as an orphan since sixteen: how I had neither kith nor kin to care for me, had been cheated and jilted by countless women until I was absolutely certain the only kind that could be trusted were prostitutes.
That had touched her warm spot. Sometimes she had me into her own rooms for dinner and drinks. Some of the things she told me when drunk I haven't dared put into this book. You wouldn't believe them.
Anyway, Fanny and her girls had accepted me like a brother. I also knew many of the regular men customers. And some of the lady customers. Oh, yes, you'd be surprised how many women think girls are more fun than men. Mostly, they are afternoon customers-when they are supposed to be busy with household chores or shopping.
I had been filling notebooks with material, but I had no really meaty situation in mind. Until I met the British empire builder.
Which explains why I abetted Big Eva when she asked him to go upstairs for their party instead of trying it on in a chair downstairs. Big Eva is an acquaintance of long standing-although that doesn't really sound like the correct way to put it-and has often confided to me the technical details of her "tricks." I was waiting for her return, in hopes of getting some really usable material on her new "john."
When Big Eva came downstairs, she headed straight for my table. The others were long gone. I could see she was bursting to talk, so I poured her a beer, sat back, and raised my eyebrows questioningly.
"Son of a bitch!" she swore. "I wonder if it's the drive to make money that sexes up these guys-or is it that the sex drive drives them to make money at the same time?"
I was taken aback. Big Eva had practically stated my thesis. Here was confirmation that real people were concerned with the problem. I decided to lead her on with deft questioning.
"That's rather deep thinking for four in the morning," I told her. "I didn't know you were a student of philosophy. What are you getting at?"
"Well, take 'The Lord' for instance. He must be rolling in money and able to take it easy for the rest of his life. He ain't no kid, you know. So, why is he making like a studhorse in Toledo, Ohio, when he'd be better off back in England keeping all the animals on his estates pregnant?"
"Aren't you taking a lot for granted?"
"Like what?"
"Like estates and titles, for instance. When you introduced him, he didn't have a pocket to put a dime in-if he had a dime."
"Hell, when he walked in here, just after dinner, you would have known for a fact that he has money. He wore a suit must have set him back two or three hundred. And one of those derby hats my father used to wear. Damn, but he looked elegant!
"Fanny says he walked up to her and asked for the biggest girl in the place. Said he wanted one for all night. Fanny always turns the heavy duty over to me. She thinks I've got more stamina because I was brought up on a farm. So, she brings him right to my room, even before I can get down to the parlor to begin my shift.
"This Britisher thanks Fanny and tips her twenty bucks. Then he tells me to skin out of my things. He cops feels off my tits and ass. Then, all of a sudden, he rams a thumb up my cunt as far as it will go. You've seen how big his hands are, honey, so you ought to have some idea of what a sensation it gave me.
"Then he turns to Fanny and tells her okay, she can go, he'll take this one. He says for her to send up some champagne and oysters when she gets back to the kitchen.
"But Fanny, she don't leave so quick. Oysters and champagne cost money and she has to send out for them. This ain't New York.
"He catches wise right away and peels another fifty out of a real morocco leather wallet. I know real morocco leather when I see it. I am also reasonably well acquainted with fifty-dollar bills. He tosses the bill to Fanny and she takes off like a fucked duck.
"Then he turns to me and raps his arms around me. I feel them slide down my back till they reach my ass, where he grabs handfuls of flesh and squeezes them, and kneads them, and strokes them.
"He lets go and says, 'Right with you, ducky,' and starts to shuck out of his clothes. Very neat, he is, and stacks everything carefully on the chair.
"I wouldn't crap you, my friend. We've had our little things together and you know very well I've been around since before yesterday. But I begin to feel different about the limey than about my other johns the minute he starts to feel my ass that way. Nobody has done that to me for a hell of a long time. And when he peels off his shorts and I see that long dong for the first time, I actually get a thrill like the one I got the first time I found out guys would pay for what I had been giving away.
"The Englishman doesn't spend anymore time making love to me. I don't expect it. He's hard up and I'm a whore. It's not supposed to matter whether I enjoy it or not. The guy is under tension like an overwound watchspring and he has to get his nuts off as soon as possible or bust out every which way at once.
"Anyway, whether he knows it or not, he has me turned on and I want him to sock it to me hard and fast.
"He picks me up-all 165 pounds of me-and throws me on the bed. He climbs between my legs and sticks the head of that long hard thing into my slit. He rams it past my clit and wham up against what must be my backbone. Then he begins the in-and-out.
"Wham ... bam ... damn ... I could feel it clear to the back of my cunt. And the funniest thing is, I came right away! Me!
"Let me show you something," said Big Eva, taking my right hand in hers and leading it under her skirt. She fed all four fingers between the lips of her cleft. The cavity inside was warm and soft. I experienced the initial stirrings of sexuality (I started to erect).
Big Eva was quick to see my heightened situation. "Don't get excited, hon," she told me, "I just want to prove something."
There was a slow stirring to the walls of her vagina and then, suddenly, they convulsed. I could feel a sort of milking series of constrictions moving along my fingers. "By golly, Eva," I said, "You're coming again."
"No, baby. Any whore worth her alum can fake an orgasm for a john she knows wants to think he's a bigtime cocksman. But I did come for The Lord. And it must of felt just like that to him. Only bigger. I know it felt to me like an earthquake.
"Yep, I came like a first-time cherry loser. It's damn embarrassing."
"It all sounds very romantic to me," I told her. "And then what happened?"
"It's a good thing I came. I could have been burned sore. His rod was stiff and he had staying power like he had been taking that stuff in the ads. I just wrap my legs around him and push back in rhythm, and we ride along like that for at least twenty-five minutes. Wow, I would have worn my cunt out if I hadn't of come so often!
"During the next twenty-five minutes or more, or less, I lose count of how often I come. I guess I look to him like Juliet the night she and Romeo found out where it was. I must be grinning from ear to ear with joy. And my eyes, I know they're shut tight like I'm dreaming.
"He stays iron-hard for so long I figure he is never going to shoot his load. Somebody told me once there are guys like that.
"All of a sudden, I feel him shudder and pull so far back his prick almost comes out. I says to myself This is it! and he starts to pump like mad-deeper and deeper. Every thrust slams me back hard against the bed and I feel another come building up inside of me.
"I jab my heels into his ribs, like I'm wearing spurs, and I let out a yell, 'Yee-ee-owwwww!' "And that's when I feel him pistoning down to the bottom and letting go with everything ... and spurt ... and spurt ... and spurt ... and spurt! And all the time he's screaming with me 'Yee-ee-owwwww!' "Shee-it!" said Big Eva, "I can still feel it."
She leaned back in her chair with a wide grin of retrospection on her face. And I withdrew my hand from between her legs, quite convinced that she had been well and truly serviced by an expert and could still feel it.
(I must say here that Big Eva's physical demonstration of her experience had given me a chance to share with her things that I could not have, had I been using ordinary medical and scientific investigative instruments.) "It sounds to me as though you have encountered a veritable pagan god," I told her. "Was it as good the following times?"
"Was it!" she squealed with recollected pleasure. "Get this. When we finish the fourth bout, he is feeling real good. Relaxed. We're lying there in the bed and he has got one arm around me, feeling my tit while he uses the other hand to frig me. From what I have told you so far, you probably think he can't be gentle, but when he is relaxed he gets sort of ... well, artistic in his frigging.
"Really, he's like a different man. Instead of socking it to me like a jolly giant, he is sliding his longest finger slowly down from the top of the slit, deep into the hole, and back up across my clit to the top. Everything inside is wet and slippery. He is using hardly any pressure at all. It's like with a feather. And I'm feeling so-o-o-o-o good, I almost faint from rapture every time his finger touches the little pearl inside.
"Then, just as I am about to let go of everything, he switches the action. He brings the finger up out of the deep part and sets it right on the clit. He strokes it, ever so lightly, with only enough pressure to his touch so that I know what he is doing. Back and forth, back and forth, just brushing the tip of the clit ... back and forth! And I start to move with it, reaching for his finger, feeling something build up inside me like I never felt with no one else ever before. And, just when I am about to scream out loud from pure pleasure, there comes a knock on the door!
"The Lord leaves off everything, gets up and opens the door. It's a waitress with his order.
"Me, I am laying there, shivering with disappointment, like a new bride whose husband can't make it on their honeymoon. But this limey, he takes the tray, tips the waitress what must have been a ten spot, at least, brings the tray over to the bed, sits himself on the edge, and starts eating oysters!
"'You rotten son of a bitch, fuck me now!' I yell.
"But he just laughs and says, 'The best is yet to come, luv. Hang on for a bit and have some of these. Try the bubbly stuff, too. You'll get what you're waiting for afterwards. And it'll be all the better for what we've had.' "'This is no time for eating,'" I shout. "'Come on, finish me off!'"
"He laughs again, then swallows three, four oysters, right off the half shells. I reach out to slug him. And he ducks under my blow and slips two big oysters right into my snatch hole!
"Now the guys here in Toledo go in pretty much for straight sex. At least those I meet. I've heard about dildoes and ticklers and such, but nobody ever tried anything fancy with me before. So, when he shoves these oysters inside of me, I don't know what to think or do, right off. But I do know they feel real different.
"Then he shoves his finger right into the hole after them, and rubs them around inside. Kee-rist, what a feeling! All the time he's laughing out loud at the look on my face. Then, all of a sudden, he bends over and removes the oysters, one at a time, with his lips and tongue. Boy, that's good! Next, while I am laying there wondering what he will do next, he pops the cork on the champagne bottle and pours my pussy full of the bubbly stuff.
"'Now then, old girl,' he says, 'there's a real loving cup for you.' And he bends over and laps it out.
"Even when the bubbly is all gone, he keeps right on lapping-like a hound after blood. And by then I am so far gone on him that I do what I haven't done in more years than I care to count. I swing around under him and go to sucking him off. He pours more champagne into my cunt, and it runs down his body and gets onto his prick ... and then I can taste champagne, too.
"And that's the way we kill the bottle-sucking and drinking, drinking and sucking. He is tonguing me all the way to heaven and I'm giving him back just as good. After a while there's no holding back, and we speed up our pumping to a mutual explosion. He like to blowed my head off.
"Don't you get the idea that we get up right away. We must of lay there for a good half hour before either of us is strong enough to get out of bed to clean up. He is loaded to the ears on champagne-but not nasty drunk-so we shower together.
"Then he wants to go downstairs for that drink. I say to him, 'You can't go down like that.' So, he puts on his shoes and that fancy necktie of his, and I guess you know what happened when we got down here."
"Well, yes, I know what happened at the table here. But after he managed to get that thing into you and then run upstairs with you impaled on it, what happened then?" I asked her. "That must be quite a story."
She chuckled long and happily. "Sure, I'll tell you about that."
"We've got plenty of time," I told her. "Pour yourself another beer. Then begin by telling me why you continually refer to him as 'The Lord.'"
"He told me to. Sometime during the evening he must have got tired of me calling him 'Mac' or 'honey.' He asked me not to do it, so I said 'Okay, give me a name to use.' He says something like, 'Well, I cawn't-(you know how he talks funny)-give you my real name because it wouldn't be cricket. Just call me "my Lord," because after all I have got a title that entitles me to that form of address.'"
"I'll have to ask him about that later," I said. "He must be a duke or an earl. Now tell me about the trip upstairs."
"Say, that's about as wild as a night could get," says Big Eva. "Every time he jumps up to another step, I feel that giant prick of his slip out some and then I come down solid-wham! It drives the thing back in against the womb. What a ride! In, out, in, out ... bam, bam, bam! I come a couple of times, at least, before we get all the way to the bed.
"Then he tumbles onto the bed, ass first, with me on top of him, still connected. He grabs my ass in his big hands and starts pumping me up and down on his shaft by using brute strength-lifting me up and pulling me back down with a great big thump!
"In about ten minutes I am as hot as a woman ever gets, and the sweat is pouring off me and down over him. That must have turned him on for sure, because I feel that first pulsing in the dong that indicates he is about to blow. And he does-like a whale!
"Then he pulls out, rolls over on his belly, and falls asleep like somebody has turned off his switch. Maybe it's the champagne, maybe he's had enough. I'll bet he's all through for tonight."
"Not at all," I told her. "Look who's here." Sure enough, "The Lord" was coming down the stairs, this time dressed completely and neat as a pin.
Big Eva whispered to me, "I really think I love the big bastard, but I don't think my pussy can stand anymore tonight."
"Maybe I can help," I whispered back, and rose to greet the Englishman. "Good morning, my Lord," I said. "The wine is almost gone and the kitchen is closed, but I do owe you a drink. I'd be much obliged if you'd toddle along with me to my digs nearby, where I can provide you with a modest but very interesting vintage." I was a little drunk myself, and quite proud of this elegant demonstration of the Queen's English. I really thought it might make our guest from across the water feel more at home.
"Hullo, old cock; hullo, Eva luv," he managed to say through a definitely furry mouth. "If there is anything I very much need right now, it's a 'hair of the dog' as you say. I'll be most happy to take up your invitation."
"Well, you won't be needing me, then," said Big Eva. "I'll get on up to bed and see what it's like to sleep alone." She smiled her thanks at me. I grinned back at her. It looked as though we had pulled it off.
"Oh, no, you're signed on for the whole night," said our British cousin. "Get your coat, ducks. I'm sure our friend has got another glass."
She grumbled a little, and I saw him slip a bill into her stocking top. She got her coat and checked out with Fanny, who made no fuss because she had made much more than an average night's profits out of this visitation from "The Lord."
At my little apartment, I touched off the gas log in the fireplace and soon we were all comfortably warm, toasting each other with my best scotch whisky out of my largest glasses. That, I decided, was a fine time to begin my subtle interrogation of my first subject. Naturally, I began with an irrelevancy to put him off his guard. "Won't you tell us, please, my Lord, whether there is any name we can call you besides 'Lord'? Somehow, here in the U.S. it sounds blasphemous-if you'll pardon me for saying so."
"Well," said he, "I guess that's all according to one's upbringing. There was a time when I never expected to speak to a Lord myself-me being first generation nobility-so you can call me Neddy. Now, there's a nickname I haven't heard since I was a toddler!"
With the lateness of the hour and the strength of the brew, a hint of cockney crept into Neddy's voice. Later it intensified. Sadly, I was not taping the interchanges. In the report of the ensuing conversation I will give only the gist and the flavor. It would give me great pleasure to be able to employ his genuine rhyming slang. And, oh, if I could only recall some of the more colorful British words he used to describe various anatomical refinements!
As I recall, my first question was whether he had always been such a devil with the ladies. He sucked at his glass reflectively, put it down, looked up at the ceiling and began to reminisce: "Now, let me see. I was nine or ten when the Blitz wiped out our whole block of flats in Whitechapel ... took my folks and a sister.
"I went on my own in the streets, rather than get evacuated out of London. I was a city lad, you see, and didn't want to be where I couldn't hear Bow Bells. I fell in with a crowd of young ones about my own age-some a little older-who had holed up in a bombed-out building. We used the cellar as home base and sleeping quarters. Daytimes we roamed the streets, begging or stealing, and flogging our loot to older children, or to fences. Sometimes we'd act as lookouts for older gangs ... or be boosted in through windows, like Oliver Twist, to open doors for robbers.
"Some of the girls were fairly good cooks, given something edible to cook, and they took turns looking after the house. We had a fairly comfortable 'family' arrangement, you might say. Since we had few blankets and little coal, we slept together in bunches for the warmth. Often's the time I'd find myself shoved out to the edge of the bed with none of the covers and freezing blue.
"One night it happened that way and I woke up so cold I was especially alert. I could hear someone moving around in the dark, so I burrowed under a bit of the blanket edge and lay perfectly still, listening hard ... I heard someone say, 'Do me.' Then I heard a sucking noise ... and a sigh. After a short bit, I heard what seemed to be a scuffle and a lot of moaning and grunting. Soon I heard another great moan, and everything stopped, except for what sounded like several people's heavy breathing.
"During all that, my eyes had gotten accustomed to the dark and I finally made out two figures over in the corner on a blanket. They were mother-naked and I could see they were boy and girl. I guess I've always known the differences between the sexes. They were lying side by side, looking fagged out as if they'd run a couple of kilometers or more at top speed.
"I stayed very still, so as not to tip them off I was awake. I hoped they'd do it again, you see, but they only popped back into their clothes-did I say it was bitter cold?-and slipped back to their sleeping groups. I hadn't the vaguest idea what they'd been up to, but I had a healthy curiosity. I guess I had hot pants, too, because next morning I had the sweats and a fever and my chums decided I had better stop at home for the day. One of the bigger girls was on duty for the washing-up and cooking, and she said she'd keep an eye on me.
"That gave me a really grand idea. When she came by the bed, I asked her to sit and talk with me. 'What's to talk about?' she said.
"'I saw something last night,' said I, and I told her about the boy and girl in the dark. Before I finished, she was in a strange state.
"Her eyes were staring off into space but not seeing anything, and she was breathing hard. I could see the dress over her little breasts heaving in and out. She had her left hand under her dress and was doing something in her crotch. Oh, it was all very puzzling to little me! When I had finished my story she stood up, reached down and pulled her dress over her head. She had nothing underneath. 'Was she like this?' she asked me.
"'I fancy so,' I told her, 'but it was dark and I couldn't see quite clearly. Funny thing, though, I didn't feel quite the same then as I do now, looking at you.' "She asked me what I meant, and I said, 'I feel all tingly and I've gone quite hard in such a strange place.' "'I know where,' she said, and in a flash she undid my buttons and pulled out my tool, which was stiff. She played with it for a while, and it got even harder. 'Coo, that's nice,' said she, 'I need some of that!' "'What do I do?' I asked her.
"'Take off your clothes and leave the rest to me,' she replied.
"All I wore was a shirt and trousers. The room was cold, but I was sweating. I skinned out of my things and she pushed me back on the bed. I must say that all the time I was undressing she never let go of my prick.
"When I was settled back, she lay down next to me, her bottom to my top, and began to nibble at my prick. The foreskin was pulled all the way back and the feel of her teeth against the sensitive meat of my glans made my flesh fairly crawl. I started to cry a little at the strange sensation, and she left off long enough to snuggle me in her arms and kiss the tears away. When I was quiet again, she offered me a breast. It was rather small, but the nipple was large as a strawberry and quite as red. There was something quite soothing about suckling at her breast.
"It didn't much soothe her, though. She soon began to writhe, and pulled the tit away from me. 'It's not good enough for me,' she said, and swung back to where she could get my cock in her mouth.
"She took the whole thing in. I went all dizzy as the shaft rode in between her lips and she compressed them around it. She pulled her head back and pushed it down, pulled up, pushed down. And with each change of direction my prick went in and out like a piston. Only, I don't think a piston can feel with every inch of its surface, and my prick did. It was so sensitive that I responded automatically to her stimulations. I guess that's what they call the 'sex drive.' I laid hold of her head on either side and began to piston in and out under my own power. She almost choked, but she matched me quickly.
"After a bit, she pulled her head away and cried out, 'Do me, do me!' That's when I realized I was having the same girl I'd watched the night before!
"'What shall I do?' I yelled back at her.
"'Suck my cunt. Eat me!' "'I've never done it before.' "'Put your tongue in my crack. Kiss the pearl. Make me come!' "Well, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound. So I wrapped my arms about her hips and pulled her close where I could reach her crotch. It was wide open. I didn't spend much time studying it. I stuck my tongue inside and proceeded to lick everything I could reach.
"After a while she went into a violent spasm and pulled my head tight to her so I couldn't breathe or do anything else for a bit. Then she eased up, put my prick back into her mouth and began to suck and tongue it in a most exciting way. My hips began to work back and forth of their own volition. Hers did, too. We were working together like a well-oiled machine. She went into that spasm again, then went all weak and quiet. I couldn't keep pushing with her in such a state, so I let up too. But I was still very, very hard.
"After another bit of time, she raised her head weakly. I could see she was in quite a sweat.
"'It's not good enough,' she said, 'I have to have the real thing. Are you sure you don't know how to fuck?' "I shook my head. 'Lie back, then,' said she, 'and let me get on top.' "I lay back with my legs stretched straight. I remember clearly that my prick was standing out and pulsing like a flagpole whipping in a gusty wind. She set her body prone on top of me and opened her legs to straddle me. She could do it easily because she was so much bigger than I. She raised up her arse and brought her pussy into position over my cock. Then she said, 'Look, you, you're supposed to get on like this-only between my legs-and stick your thing into mine. I'll show you what to do then.' "Only, she didn't let me get into the position right away. Instead, she shoved her cunt down over my cock and began riding up and down it, like on a carousel horse. This felt like when she'd sucked me before ... only about a hundred times more exciting. She kissed me, too, and licked my lips, which were partly open from the rutting effort. I shall never forget how she ran her tongue in and round about. Over my teeth, against the inside of my lips and cheeks, around my tongue ... everywhere-Gorblimey!
"We were going at it hot and heavy and she came a couple of more times, but kept right on. I was faint, and my breath caught in my throat, but I remained rigid in the organ. I know that's strange for a kid, but I've always been like that. She rode me like a monkey on a stick after a while, because she had lost control and was fucking automatically. I could hear her panting, 'Come, damn you, come!' Suddenly she quit ... cold. 'I can't keep going,' she said to no one in particular, 'this kid is too much for me.' "But I had reached the point where I had to come. I won't pretend I knew exactly what that meant, that first time. I just knew there was something inside of me that said to keep going. I crawled out from under her, rolled her over and climbed on top. I set my cock in the mouth of her cunt and tried to push it in all the way. It wouldn't go. She had dried up and gone tight. She croaked out something that sounded like, 'Wet it,' so I pulled out and licked her cunt for a while.
"When I tried to prong her again, it went in easily. My belly smacked flat against hers and my cock hit bottom. She screamed and went right on screaming all the while I pushed and pulled. I must have been doing it right, because she wrapped her arms and legs about me, shot her tongue in and out of my mouth, and kept on keening a high note like a bitch.
"Then I felt my first coming! It was as though everything inside me were trying to get out at once. I rammed my prick home and held it there. My toes curled up tight. I shot and shot and shot ... and the good juices flowed into her. She came at the same time, and her spasms sucked me dry. Then the surges diminished, and, as the stuff mingled, we fell asleep, me, right there on her belly with my cock right there inside of her!"
Lord Neddy stopped talking and fell to amused snorts over the remembrance of that moment. Then he poured himself another big shot of scotch. I joined him. Big Eva refused another drink. She wanted to stay awake for the rest of the story.
"Come on, don't keep us waiting like this," she said. "I feel like I've been half laid. You can't leave me like this."
Neddy found a pipe in one of his pockets, got it burning, and puffed for a while. He smiled to himself. That was Agnes. I always called her Aggie. We woke up in an hour or so and I helped her with the washing up. I remember my fever was all gone.
"Before the others got home, she told me she wanted to move out and set up a place for just us two, because she didn't want me to have any other girl but her. Well, that was a bit of all right with me. I was young, but I wasn't dumb. I could see the advantages of having my own steady bit of stuff. Besides, there was not another girl around just then I'd have given sweet fuck-all for. It took us about a week to find another bombed-out house with a dry cellar, to steal enough tucker and other stuff to stock it, and to settle down to a loverly routine.
"We surely had a good thing going there for a while," he sighed. "She was a good old girl and she loved me for fair. But all good things have to end sometime. I guess I was lucky. We had a lot of good times before we began to think of our lovemaking as the same old grind.
"She took the first step. One night she said to me, 'Neddy, I know how we can get together a pot of money so we two can get on up in the world.' I asked her how and she told me that, with all the Yank troops in England so hungry for women, there was plenty of brass to be had for 'selling her ass.' I remember she rhymed it just that way. I said I didn't know where that would leave me and she said, 'You could be my pimp and line up the customers. We could bring them here and you'd do the collecting whilst I did my tricks.' I was twelve or so by then, and noble, so I said right away that, no, I wasn't turning my girl into a white slave.
"But she said, 'Don't you be a damned fool, Ned, luv, I need the men as much as we need the money. You're a darling of a lover but you're getting monotonous. Besides, I'm not your girl. We're just friends, so you needn't trouble your conscience with the blooming notion that you're doing me wrong in any way.' "I could see her point and, just between us, I was getting a bit tired of Old Ag. She must have been over sixteen by then and I was feeling stifled by her mothering ways-and more than a little bit curious about what other girls were like. So I agreed to manage this little enterprise for her. Soon we were making money hand over fist. Now there's a queer expression: hand over fist. It just reminded me that sometimes when Aggie was busy and the next customer wouldn't wait, I did him off myself with my bare hand. I had just about forgotten that.
"It really was a fine venture, my first business. And it has much to recommend it. After all, where else can you sell something and still have it to sell again? And it taught me a lot about competition: How to attract customers and sell them on the diddling idea that my girl was the best to be had. I was quick to learn. By time I was eighteen, I had several girls located in different flats around London, and could always find more to handle special customers. I also had a hand in any number of 'fiddles'-I believe you call them 'rackets'-from contraband cigarettes to smuggled cognac. I was well on my way to real money. In a couple of years more, I opened a private club in Mayfair where we furnished food, floor show, liquor, girls, and gambling. This was my bid to go legitimate. I reckoned to sell out one day for a bundle of guineas and start a respectable business."
He paused for a while, lost in thought. Then he went on. "I was trying to recall whether I had the idea of trying for a title in those days. I know I felt I was doing quite well for a cockney boy who hadn't a bean at the start and had no parents to guide him. I was rolling in the brass. Why, I was keeping three mistresses hidden away in different parts of town, riding between them in a natty Rolls, buying them all the furs and feathers they could wear, and still stowing away plenty of guineas for expansion money. I suppose I had the idea of a title for me at the back of my mind. It isn't what it used to be, being a nobleman, but it's fun when you've been a commoner first.
"I recall well the first 'Lady' I fucked." He laughed shortly and without much mirth. "She came into the club one evening without an escort. We weren't having any of that, and the doorman asked her to leave. She told him no in language that would make a Teddy-boy blush, and demanded to see the manager. So he brought her up to my office. I read her a real lecture, told her we were running a respectable club and that unattached women could give it a bad name. We were straight with the authorities and we wanted to keep it that way, so I said I'd appreciate it if she'd muck off and do her bit somewhere else. I hadn't recognized her, d'you see? Had she given her name at any time, I'd soon have, because her brother was one of our most important all-round clients. But from outward appearances I thought she was a whore-pardon me, Eva-who'd tried to get in to meet new clients.
"She told me to go bugger myself. Said she was Lady Sylvia Fallique, and that her brother had told her all about the girls upstairs.
"Well, that changed my mind some. I decided what we had here was a lesbian. And I don't much care for that sort. So I told her I didn't care Sweet Fanny Adams who she was and what her blithering brother had told her, and that if we had any girls upstairs-which I wasn't admitting-they'd be for real men, not undecided ladies.
"She told me I was a filthy sod who purely ought to go and get himself knotted; that if she were looking to get fixed up she'd want a man. She asked me why I couldn't supply her with a man like I supplied women to men. She said she could pay any price. I told her she didn't look to me like the type who had to pay for a man, and she started to cry. 'They're all after my money,' she sobbed. 'I am sick and tired of being had. If I can't have a man who loves me for myself, I want to buy me a fuck like a man, and then walk away from him when I've had my fill.' I suppose she was frustrated right down to the pussy, because the tears just rolled out of her eyes in bucketfuls.
"It was the tears that tore it for me. First I gave her my handkerchief, then I offered her my shoulder to cry on. Then she was in my arms and I was kissing her. In a few moments I was fondling one of her really smashing breasts, and it wasn't much longer before I had her out of the dress and sitting on my lap, where I felt her up for fair. She had a special scent about her that I'd never smelled before, and it went right to my head every time I kissed her. She was cuddling very close to me, eyes closed, breathing quick and heavy. I was sure I had her going wild when, abruptly, she set her hands against my chest and pushed free. I was so astounded that I didn't offer any real resistance. She stood up and began to swear at me in very unladylike language, the mildest word of which was 'cocksucker.' "I stood there dumbfounded. 'What the hell is this?' I asked her. 'You said you needed a man. I'm man enough for you and at least one more twist ... and I know you liked what I was doing.' "'You're trying to take advantage of me,' she said. 'You'll blackmail me. Where's the camera?' "'Shit!' I shouted. 'There are no hidden cameras in my office. We don't run that kind of a club. As for your money, I would guess I've got just as much, at least. And I made it all myself. No one left me anything when he kicked off between satin sheets! I was only trying to give you what you've been asking for. And there won't be any charge!' "Anyone who has ever had a woman in full passion knows the signs-the heaving breasts, the out-thrust and swollen nipples, the wide open stance of a naked woman in heat and unashamed ... Well, that was Lady F.
"I gave her the clincher. 'And if you think I can't give you what you want in full measure, look at this!' And I zipped open my fly and pulled out the tool which had won Aggie and a lot of others over the years. It wasn't quite as long then, but almost. And almost as round. And hard as ever from excitement, anger, and lust. I stood there holding it in my hands, almost in a gesture of derision, like the Italians sometimes do. She studied it for a full three minutes. Then she walked towards me. Neither of us said anything more.
"She took hold of my prick and led it to her pussy. She stood on tiptoes to straddle it, then set one foot on a chair beside me so my cock could enter straight into her warm and waiting wet pussy. And we fucked that way-standing up-for almost an hour. Until she had come four times and I finally reached my peak. I nearly blew her backbone out with the force of my explosion."
Lord Neddy didn't know it, but he had his hand on his cock inside his trousers while he finished his story. I had the impression that only the exhaustion brought on by his previous efforts with big Eva and the late hour prevented him from pulling it out and giving Big Eva another poke.
To set him back to his story, I asked politely, "Did you at last marry Lady F?"
"Hell, no. I wasn't ready to get married. Besides, she never came back. I was greatly put out about that for quite a while. I was young enough to believe she had never been fucked so well before and that I could have her anytime I wanted her. Next week I read where she had run off with her chauffeur, a big brown fellow from Jamaica. It fair broke me up. Not that I'm one for drawing the color line. Don't you look at me that way. They're all men to me and I can prove it. It was just the idea that any man could beat me at the game that got me.
"But it did me a lot of good, too. I decided to show her she wasn't so much by proving I was a lot more than I had been up till then. I sold the club for a cracking big sum, which I added to what I'd squirreled away. Then I went over to Japan and found myself an electronics genius. In one of the smartest deals of my life, I lured him away from one of the big factories and made him my full partner. We set up a factory outside London for making miniaturized electronic parts.
"Later we went into making solid-state components and whole units. We staffed our works almost entirely with blacks, yellows, and browns. They work hard, take a lot of pride in their jobs, and we pay them well. We now own three great big electronics works and have shown the rest of England we can outproduce and build a better product than Japan, Germany, or the U.S. Now, everyone wants our goods. My partner runs the inside, but we've had trouble finding really competent sales help. So, I'm on the road most of the year. I don't have time for kith or kin. You'll always find me where there's a big deal brewing-especially for governments."
He laughed aloud, grimly. "Yes, sir, that's Lord Neddy-King of the Electronics Sharks. I bought a title, too, but it doesn't keep me happy. Or warm. The only good times I have are when I land in some city where no one knows me. Then I can break out and get all the loving I want for the time-on a business basis, with no strings attached. And, as long as I don't give my right name, there's little likelihood that anyone will be after me, wanting to put strings on me or grab my money."
Suddenly, Lord Neddy's face fell, and he broke into sobs. He pillowed his head on his arms and wept as if he were all alone in the world. Big Eva put her arms around him. I left the room. She could do more for him than I.
Besides, I wanted to think over what I'd been told. Did Lord Neddy's sex drives feed his urge to make money? That's hard to say. Certainly his desires made him want-or need-money. But, is it not also true that this man would have given his all for someone who would love him for himself alone?
THE ATHLETIC HOMO
If I had a nickel for every person in the U.S. who believes that a homosexual is a slim-waisted, broad-hipped, limp-wristed, simpering, ninety-eight-pound weakling, I would be too busy counting nickels to do anything else. The truth is that there are a lot of handsome, husky men who think it is unmanly to fuck with women. Sports, for instance, and the movies, are full of rugged he-man types who have gravitated there because of the opportunities for mixing with other massively-built, well-hung fellows who like to be cared for by other men.
There is undoubtedly some parallel to be drawn here with the ancient Greeks and Romans, or African tribesmen, or American Indian braves, or fierce Arab desert fighters, who left their women behind when they went on campaigns and formed attachments with their fellows to satisfy their sex needs. They never thought of themselves as effeminate, even if they had to assume the submissive position in the act.
All this is by way of preamble to the case of Dic Stanley.
A telegram from Dr. Merkin reached me one day at my apartment in Toledo. It originated in Beverly Hills, California, and said: If really interested effect money on sex drive investigate Dic Stanley Health Parlor this town. My God exclamation point. Am enroute Mexico-rest and recreation. See you if I get back. If not meet me Tequis December 25.
It took me a couple of days to close my place and get out to Beverly Hills. I spent the following week looking up writing friends who are with the studios and local newspapers, discreetly pumping them on fairies in general and Dic Stanley in particular.
What set me off on fairies? Why, the code, of course. Merkin's use of "exclamation point" in his cable was the tip-off. Had he used "Ampersand" I'd have looked for a swapping-club situation. "Holy Cow" was code for a Lesbian angle. "Hyphen" stood for statutory rape. I can't remember all of the private cables we used. Anyway, I learned a lot I'd never known before; and many things I'd been told before were definitely confirmed.
One writer friend at a San Fernando Valley movie studio told me that the studio at which he works is almost completely staffed by fags, which is why one rarely finds a female star on the lot or sees a woman in one of their pictures. That studio specializes in he-man stars and stories packed with violence-but no sex.
My friend told me the weirdest thing he had ever seen was a take in which a cowboy star appeared to beat a man to death with his bare hands. Then, with the scene in the can, this actor-my boyhood hero-put one of those lethal hands on one of his hips and minced off to his dressing room, waggling his derriere as only Marilyn Monroe is supposed to have been able to. This friend told me there is an edict on that studio lot that this actor is never to be photographed from the rear-especially when he is in motion.
I was crestfallen. "Not him," I said. "Oh, but yes," said my friend. "I find it very difficult to believe," I told my friend, "that there are so many fags in the movie business."
"You better believe it, old buddy," he told me, "else one day you might find yourself on a casting couch without your southern cherry."
"You're putting me on."
"No shit, Hendry. You saw all those nice young fellows in tight pants out there, as you came from the gate to my office, didn't you? The tight trousers are a homosex symbol here in Hollywood!"
"By the way," I interposed with seeming nonchalance, "does the same thing go for your he-man sports figures out here?"
"Like whom, for instance?"
Well, say, Dic Stanley, the old football player who owns all those health clubs. Seems to me I heard-"
"You heard right, friend! Everyone here knows there is only one place to go for a really friendly fag shag. There are masseurs at Dic Stanley's who can make your eyes bug out, your skin crawl, and your nuts pop like nowhere else. You'll beg for mercy."
"The only place in town?" I queried. "In a manner of speaking. There's always someone new coming along with a new place that will someday be 'the only place in town.' But, right now, I should say Stanley's are the only places. He had five last time I counted. And more scheduled to open across the country. He must be running a chain of homos' homes-away-from-home. They're wonderful places to meet 'consenting adults.'"
"And what about Dic himself?"
"The mother queen of them all! Sure, he used to be a star football player, but that's no guarantee of heterosexuality. Just because a guy is six-foot-four, two-hundred-seventy pounds, and the fiercest, handsomest black man you ever saw-that's no reason to be positive he's straight. Not in Hollywood, or Beverly Hills, or Los Angeles. And don't be too sure about those foreign male actors, either."
I must have looked extremely skeptical, because my friend said, "He'll probably fool you too. Just wait until you see him; the ideal picture of a Negro cowboy ... "
"Negro cowboy?" I interrupted.
"Yeah. Well, he is from Texas. Beaumont, I think. So he drawls and wears boots and a big hat, and fancy stitched suits with a fringe on the jackets. And sequins. Queers love to wear those highheeled boots. And those silk shirts and fringed suits are a transvestite's dream."
"And does Dic turn tricks, too?"
"No, I guess not. Not professionally anyway. Though I did hear he handled trade himself sometimes when the first place opened up in Beverly Hills. Say, if you're really interested in Dic Stanley you should talk to old Harry Socks at the Times. Harry's a sportswriter. He used to scout for the L.A. team. He found Dic for them. I can introduce you to him. He used to be my boss. Here, wait, I'll phone him now."
I left my friend's office and headed for Socks' place in a car I had rented. As I drove along the freeway, it suddenly occurred to me that my friend had evidenced a far greater knowledge of the homosexual thing than he had ever displayed in conversations before he left home to become a Hollywood writer. It seemed to me he had more than an innocent bystander's acquaintance with the subject now. His description of the masseurs' techniques at Dic Stanley's didn't sound like hearsay. I concluded he had probably made a switch for business reasons. After all, it must be difficult to work where everyone else is a deviant. The old saw "If you can't lick 'em, join 'em" flashed through my mind. But it didn't seem to apply to this particular situation.
Harry Socks was a gruff, fat little man. I saw at once that his desk in the newsroom was too public for the sort of talk I had in mind. So I invited him out for a drink. He accepted as though he had been waiting for the invitation all his life. We found a place on Main Street that was cool and dark and quiet.
"Okay," said Harry, "what do you want to know about Dic Stanley? And why?"
I had to think fast. It wouldn't serve my purpose to tell Socks about my sex survey. But if I alienated him he might queer my chances of an interview with Dic Stanley. So I told him, "I'm working on a book-could be a movie, too-about a Negro who built himself up from nothing into a prominent sports figure, businessman, and screen star. The time is just right for a story like that. And when the book sells a million copies and we make a movie from it we can go even further than they did. Nude scenes in movies now are sexier than ever ... "
"Maybe you don't know it, mister, but Dic Stanley is a goddamn queer!"
"No! Why do you say that? I thought you were his best friend. Didn't you discover him?"
"I found him playing for a college nobody ever heard of. His team was picked when one of the local colleges wanted to initiate a new stadium with a sure win. He beat them single-handed. But he was a queer then and he's still a queer. I made him the success he is today, And I guess you might say that he 'made' me, too. I hate his buggering guts!"
"Look," I told Socks, "I don't know who's right or wrong. To me it's just a story. I may never use the right names. As one writer to another, why don't you tell me your side of it? You might feel better after getting it off your chest."
"Okay," said Harry, "maybe you're right. Tell the barman to bring a bottle and let's get comfortable."
He poured himself a long drink, pulled at it, stared into it for a while and then began to talk.
"He was a beautiful hunk of man. Reminded me of Paul Robeson in his prime. Or maybe Jim Brown. Pity they never let him sing in a movie. He had a good, natural rolling baritone.
"Yeah," Socks continued. "I saw him play that day and I liked him. That evening I took him out to dinner and tried to talk him into playing for L.A.
"He didn't seem to want to come to the big city. I figured he was naturally shy. I told him about the big money to be made in pro football, about the women who'd be his for the asking. I evenmentioned the chance to break into the movies. Hell, practically every football player who can read lines has had a shot at movies, and some have done very well for themselves. Look at John Wayne. Woody Strode. They made a movie of Elroy Hirsch's life and paid him plenty to star in it! I think it was the idea of meeting actors and maybe getting into moving pictures that sold him. Anyway, he agreed to come down for tryouts.
"It's all history now, how he made the team and starred for four years. I can skip a lot. I guess I'll begin with the night Dic Stanley almost killed his roommate.
"We were on the road. At Dallas. It was one of those hot, damp, Texas nights. All of a sudden, we heard someone yelling blue murder from one of the rooms on our floor. It was a high-pitched screaming. You couldn't tell whether it was a man or woman. Right away I figured one of the boys had sneaked a woman into his room, was liquored up and was beating her. It's happened often enough before. We found the room without too much trouble, but we had to break down the door to get in. By the time we get it open a lot had happened."
Harry Socks laughed ruefully. "You'd think with a football team of your own you could get together enough weight to break a door down. But, no. Most of the guys were asleep. Have you ever tried to wake a hibernating bear? I bet he don't even hear you. They say he sleeps as soundly as a linebacker.
"We broke the door down and we found Dic Stanley buggering his roommate. Not making love, mind you, but back-scuttling him with all his might. And he must have gone off just as we got the door open, because he gave out a shout you could hear for miles.
"It took ten men to get Stanley off the other guy. Just picture this big black guy fighting and hollering like an African savage, shining with sweat. You couldn't hardly hold on to him. I knocked him out with the fireaxe handle and sent out for a doctor for the other guy.
"What a mess! He was all torn open behind. Dic is hung like a stud bull, and it would take a lot of practice before anyone could take him. What he did was the same as rape. We moved the other guy into my room and I sat up with Die. Of course I held on to the axe. I'm not a very brave man. I am cautious as hell.
"I might as well tell you right now that we needed Dic Stanley badly that season, so we got the other guy patched up, paid him something to keep him quiet, and transferred him to a club near his home. But he seemed to lose heart, and quit the game in about a year.
"As I said, I stayed there with Dic-ready to bash his head in if he tried anything with me. When he came to, he was quite rational. I asked him why in hell he had done a thing like that and he told me he had been drunk. He can't hold liquor. It drives him out of his skull. I know it for a firsthand fact myself, now.
"'Look here, Die,' I said to him, 'you ought to know better than to try buggering a guy who doesn't want to go that route. We both know there are plenty of guys in this game who'll play grabass with you anytime and be glad to suck or be sucked. So why don't you find yourself a compatible roommate and settle down? I tell you true, son, if we didn't need you so badly this year you'd be on your way back to the bushes, or down at the jailhouse-with your career ruined for life.' "Dic shook his head sadly and said to me, 'I'm really sorry. I don't know what came over me. I guess it's this town. Any big Texas town is a hell of a place for a black boy to be on a Saturday night. I always expect to have a car pull up alongside of me and see some white boozers get out. And maybe they'll have guns-you can get them anywhere here-and it's for sure they'll roust me. And I don't dare fight back. So, I was feeling real blue when I got back to the hotel and I picked up a bottle from the bell captain and went to my room to get drunk.
"'Wouldn't have been so bad if my regular roomie had been here. He likes his loving same way I do. But he's in the hospital with a busted collarbone. So, I got to drinking all by myself. And then I got mean and mad. I was ready to fuck any white man who didn't fuck me first. I'm sorry the other guy showed up. If I'd been alone, I'd probably have jerked off and gone to sleep.' "'Why don't you find yourself a broad?' "'Ain't very many who can take a prick like mine. Besides, it just ain't the same.' "'What do you mean by that?' I asked.
"'Well, I guess it's the way you're started off. If you spend all of your time with men it gets you scared of women. Besides, it's so good-wrestling and sweating all over each other before, and showering together afterward. Anyhow, you see this big dick of mine? It's what I'm named after. I mean, the folks named me in church-Obadiah Stanley Black. Well, Black is a last name I can do without. Obadiah is pure Uncle Tom. And the boys I grew up with just naturally got to calling me Big Dick when we were just little tads because they were jealous of my man-size dong and my big rocks.
"'I was the first in my gang to learn how to jerk off. One of the big boys showed me because he heard how my voice had changed and wanted someone to share sex experiences with him. He was star first baseman on the high-school team, and a weight lifter and wrestler. The other guys thought he was a hero. He could have had any girl he wanted. But he wouldn't have anything to do with them. I remember him saying females could ruin an athlete. They took his mind off training and stole his strength. I guess, now, that he was purely afraid of them and wouldn't risk getting into trouble by hurting one with his big tool.
"'He used to take me off into the woods outside town. I'd have to feel up all his muscles, then his nipples, then his ass. And when he'd get real hot I'd jerk him off.
"'In a little while I had my own crowd of kid admirers who'd come to play with my big dick. They'd take turns jerking me off and make bets on who could make me come faster.
"'Then the big guy sucked me off for the first time. Man, that was a real thrill. I didn't know he was going to do it. We were just lying around out there in the bushes, resting up from our first go of the day. I had my eyes closed tight and was looking up at the insides of the lids. And the last thing I was expecting happened.
"'He was facing right at my prick at the time. He just reached over and took it between his palms, gently, and rolled it easy, and blew on the tip. And I got hard like never before. Then he licked me like he was doing it to a great big old lolly pop and had all day to finish. Real slow and easy. I got so hot it made me cry. He stuck my prick into his mouth all the way and began to suck. Man, that was goo-ood!
"'I began to buck from the hips. Which he must have expected, because he was holding on to me with both hands. He held me real tight, to keep me from pulling away and breaking off the action. I began to feel stuff piling up in my balls. The pressure was building up real fine. So I grabbed his ears and began pouring it to him. His big dong was staring me in the face, since we were in sixty-nine position, so I took it into my mouth and tried to do for him what he was doing for me. Only, just then I came. Right in his mouth. And it was such a tremendous thrill that I bit down and nearly ruined him for life.
"'It was okay, though, because the big guy dug pain. He truly loved it. Only I had to handle him real easy for a long while afterward.'" Harry Socks had told Dic Stanley's story almost as though it were his own-or, rather, as though he were Die. He stopped talking at this point and stared off into space for a while. Then he looked at me and asked, "I suppose you're wondering how I can remember all this, word for word?"
I believed that I already knew the reason, but I said no and waited for him to confirm or negate my theory.
"It's as simple as this, he said. I fell for the big black guy."
I gave myself full marks for having instinctively drawn this conclusion on my own. Harry went on talking as if I were not there.
"Sure, I'm as queer as he is. I'm a switch hitter. AC-DC. You can't live with them for as long as I have without getting into their bag.
"Since I was traveling the full circuit with the team, we became roommates and spent all our time together. When we got back to L.A. he moved in with me. We lived together-practically man and wife-for three years. And I thought I was as happy as a man could be!"
Harry Socks stopped talking and took to gazing morosely into his glass. For a long while he stared, focusing inward, and when he looked up to talk again it was as though I were not there and he was reminiscing aloud to himself.
"I remember ... I remember that first night together in our apartment. I had prepared a really gourmet dinner ... steak Chateaubriand with pate de foie gras-the real stuff from Strasbourg-and all the trimmings, including a bottle of brandy that set me back almost forty bucks.
"It was the brandy that warmed Dic up until he stripped off his clothes. First to go was his shirt. He wore no undershirt and, since he was wet with sweat, his shoulder and chest muscles reflected the light as if they were oiled and coiled.
"Remember, he told me once he couldn't hold his liquor? It went to work on him right away. His actions were uncoordinated as he peeled off his trousers and shorts to leave himself completely naked except for socks and shoes. He swayed as he stood, but his cock rose up proud and full and I was tremendously excited to see how powerful it looked, with its big pinkish head against that dark skin. He seemed to want me to do the same thing, so I skinned out of my clothes and stood there feeling like a midget next to his powerfully muscled big body.
The tips of our straining cocks touched and kissed, blending those little drops of first lubrication. I reached out and took his massive thing into my hand, and trembled as I felt his big hand encase my dong. I must admit I was afraid he'd take me the way he had buggered his roommate that night in Texas, but there was a thrilling gentleness to his touch as his lips kissed mine and his tongue slipped into my mouth. We moved to the sofa without breaking the kiss, and lay there knotted together. I took great delight in sending my fingers dancing down his strong back, teasing in the erotic places, massaging his smooth and solid buttocks, exciting him until he grabbed my cock and squeezed it until I almost came.
"Then he took over and treated me to a thousand and one or more delicious sensations that only experience at this kind of love can produce. What a contrast between his massive strength and the tenderness he gave me! He loosed his mouth from mine and licked lower, ever lower, leaving behind quivering, burning flesh. I rocked my hips involuntarily, my cock begged to be taken. Down under my balls went his titillating tongue, playing with them until I screamed with excitement and sheer agony.
"He slowly worked down to my asshole, moving his tongue faster, pressing harder with it, until I knew what his next move would be. I raised my legs high and, sure enough, felt Dic withdraw his tongue from my ass and replace it with the tip of his cock. It drove up between my buttocks. For an instant I was afraid I couldn't take it, then its steady pressure opened my sphincter muscle wider and wider until the thing was well in. The pain was slight, compared with the pleasure he gave me, and to the driving desire I felt to take his entire prick inside. Slowly he inched it in until we were in complete contact. Then Dic leaned forward and took my cock into his mouth. He had me fore and aft!
"Those warm lips slid lovingly up and down my hard shaft in unison with his shaft in my ass. The double palpitating sensation was almost too much for any man to bear. I wiggled and writhed in ecstasy as he plunged his cock into me and mine traveled the depth of his mouth. I gurgled and groaned as he reversed his fields. That big prick moved faster and faster until we were both overwhelmed with an urge much too strong to be denied.
"With a half strangled, animal cry, Dic exploded and jetted his juice into me-just as I blew into his mouth. We both reared and bucked so suddenly and unexpectedly that we fell off the sofa and thumped onto the floor. Neither of us was hurt, but we were gasping for breath and laughing so hard that our sides hurt."
"I thank you for a very interesting story," I said, "and ask you only to give me the one final bit, that I'm sure you'll admit as a newspaperman, that you owe me."
"And what is that?" asked Harry Socks.
"The end bit. The reason why you don't like Dic Stanley anymore. You told me all the rest to get even with him. Now tell me why you hate him."
The pudgy reporter lowered his head down to the table and cushioned it on his arms. He was more than a little bit drunk. I realized that he had been drinking steadily all through his story and that I hadn't noticed the bottle's level was dropping fast because I was engrossed in recording Dic Stanley's biography in my memory. He looked up at me. One eye was closed. The other was out of focus. "Oh, all right," he said, "I'll give you that much. The son of a bitch took me for every dime I had and then dumped me. It happened like this.
"When he broke six ribs in the Green Bay game, he got gun-shy. Every time more than one man rushed him he'd pull back and get thrown for a loss. When the word got out around the league, every team in the circuit took to ganging up on him. We lost game after game. Then the coach took to taunting him, trying to give him back his guts, which was a big mistake. Dic practically took him apart limb from limb.
"Remember when Dic retired in the middle of the season and releases went out that the coach was so broken up about it that he had to take three weeks off himself? Sure he was broken up, literally. And Dic was booted out of the league. And since I was the only other guy in the room at the time of the mayhem I got the boot, too. With the warning that if the story ever got out we'd be charged with assault, attempted homicide, selling out the team to gangsters, and blackmail-at the very least. And they'd give out the whole story about Dic and me, our private lives. Shit, it happens all the time. There's plenty of clout on your side when you own a championship team that brings big publicity and big money to a city.
"Dic was broke. He had blown $150,000-maybe $200,000-during his career, on fancy clothes, fancy men, booze, cars, and a certain amount of blackmail to queer queens who turned bitchy on him. He had this idea for a deluxe health club in Beverly Hills. All he needed was the money to cash in on his name. But the word was out to the smart money gang that he was poison. Some of the team owner's silent partners had put the Indian sign on him. They were going to teach him that you can't buck management.
"I had saved up about $35,000 and Dic persuaded me to back him. We became equal partners. I was supposed to get back all of my investment out of early profits and continue as a full partner with no investment. It sure seemed like a perfect deal. Only thing I didn't like about it was I was supposed to keep out of sight of the place and keep my connection with it quiet. He explained it might make the clientele nervous were they to see a newspaperman hanging around. Well, my job didn't leave me much time for hanging around the club, anyway, so it wasn't difficult to persuade myself that I didn't want to be seen there anyhow. Besides, I got all I wanted from Dic when he came home at night. For a while it was the next best thing to living in paradise. But it was a fool's paradise. It couldn't last.
"From all indications, the health club was prospering like there was a gold mine in the basement. Of course, nothing about it was really legitimate. What it was is a great big male whorehouse. You'll find them in every big city. They're places where certain types of men get together to feel each other's muscles and things. These guys get turned on admiring each other's developments and sneak off into corners to jerk off together. Sometimes they get to soaping one another in the shower and end up ramming bungholes. Then, there's the steam room. I've seen dozens of these guys busy in two's and three's-feeling secure because they think the steam's hiding them from anyone who might otherwise notice. More surely, they're safe because everybody else is as much involved and nobody's going to talk and spoil the fun.
"Dic Stanley's club in Beverly Hills was like that, only more so. It was deluxe, comfortable, and protected. Practically all the unmarried male movie stars in town enrolled during the first month. They knew they were safe because Dic had deliberately let the word get around on the inside that he was queer himself. It's no big crime in show business, you know. And with a membership like that they were safe from busts. A bust would have closed up every studio you can name.
"Every guy who worked in the place was a fag, or at least a switcher. Some of the handsomest and best-developed 'masseurs' and 'gym instructors' worked for Dic and could be had by appointment. Sure, there were some straight guys who came for the exercise and the steam. Those got special service to keep them happy because they made wonderful window dressing.
"Know how you could spot the fags? I mean, apart from the fact that you could bet that two out of three were queer if they patronized the place. Well, the real fags wouldn't wear jockstraps! I guess nobody wanted to waste time on unnecessary preliminaries. It was an invitation and a convenience not to have to spend time untangling a likely tool from gym shorts. And none of them were really straining their balls with athletic sports, so the jockstrap was out of vogue.
"Cripes! I broke my agreement and sneaked in for a swim one time, and there were so many guys diving between other guys' legs that the water was all churned up. I was bitten on the scrotum three times!
"To make a long story short, the first shop prospered like it had a government contract. And Dic opened up three more in the L.A. area simultaneously. I had hoped to get some of my money back by then, but he told me every bit of cash had been put into equipping and furnishing the new places. He consoled me by pointing out I was now a full partner in four big businesses.
"Then, one night about six months later, Dic came home and said things weren't going so good. The cops were putting on the heat, he said, and customers were not flocking in like before. Even the restaurant end-each club had a gourmet restaurant that was open to the public-was beginning to slow down. A few weeks later, Dic asked me if I had any more money. I told him I could come up with a couple of hundred, but no big sums. He said we would have to go easy on expenses for a while as the clubs were beginning to cost more than they were making. He said the heat couldn't last forever and soon he'd be able to start paying me back. That night we slept apart and I was just as happy. Worrying about money was taking my mind off sex.
"Dic took to spending the nights at the Beverly Hills club. Or so he said. He told me he'd had to lay off help and was managing the whole operation himself. Since the club was open night and day, it didn't occur to me to doubt him. Not right away. Then came the night when I got a 'friendly' phone call. The guy wouldn't give his name. He sounded real bitchy.
"'Listen, honey,' he said to me, 'your boyfriend is using your money to build up his business and is going to freeze you out. This is the only warning you're going to get!' "'Who is this?' I yelled back at the phone. 'What's your angle? Why are you doing this?' "'Never you mind, queenie,' said the voice. 'As far as you're concerned, this is just another one of the girls. I'm doing you a kindness. Nobody told me about him.' And the guy hung up.
"When Dic got home I was waiting for him with a gun. I had been stewing about the phone call all day. Drinking a lot, too. He walked through the door and I took a shot at him. It missed by a mile and shattered a statuette on the mantel. He dashed at me and tackled me low. Damn near ruptured me. We hit the floor together and the gun flew out of my hand. I lay still. I had my senses back and knew he would kill me if I provoked him further. Fact is, I was damn surprised he hadn't killed me already.
"'Now what the fuck's this all about?' he demanded. And the expression on his face reminded me of the day we'd caught him buggering his roommate.
"'You've been screwing me out of the business profits. I know all about it. Don't deny it!' "His dark features grew darker as his brows drew down together. He hit me across the face, hard. 'Now you're out for sure,' he said, and began to beat me into a pulp. He blacked my eyes and broke every one of my teeth; broke my left arm, too. And finished the beating by knocking me across the room, into a corner. 'You're through, you're through,' he kept shouting. 'I'm going to kill you!' "I felt something under my right hand. It was the pistol he'd wrenched away from me before. I seized it and struggled to bring it up on line with his belly. The room was spinning around and I couldn't quite hold the gun steady on line. I knew I had to stop him quickly, so I squeezed the trigger and let a shot fly. It passed right between his legs, and he froze where he stood.
"'You can't kill me and get away with it!' I shouted through the snags of my teeth. 'Everyone knows we live here together. You'd be the first one they'd pull in. And before you get to me again I'll shoot your balls off! They'll be able to tell you were mixed up in this even if you get me.' "He dropped his hands slowly to his sides. 'You're right,' he said, 'and the same thing goes for you. So now we're through with each other. I'm getting out.' "'Not so damn fast,' I told him, 'you're going to pay me off first. I've got a partnership agreement with you that says I'm in for half.' "He laughed. It cracked out short and hard. 'You're no partner of mine. As far as anyone knows you're just a guy I felt sorry for and took in out of the cold after you were of no use to the team.' "'But we have a contract!' I shouted. 'It's in the safe.' "'What contract? Go look for it.' "I hobbled over to the safe, still keeping him in line with the gun. It took several tries to work the combination. When I opened the safe there was nothing in it but the apartment lease. He stood there looking at me and laughing. Those big, white, even teeth flashed. I wanted to kick them down his throat.
"'We're through for good,' he told me, 'and you own no part of my business. The rent's paid here until the end of the year, so you've got six months to find yourself another pad. Just keep your mouth off me or it will only be a six-foot-long pad. And don't ever come near me again or I'll have you fitted for a shroud faster than you can yell copper.' "And he turned and walked out, leaving me standing there with the pistol still in my hand."
"Why didn't you take the story to the newspapers?" I asked Harry Socks.
"Wasn't much use. I spent the next six months in the hospital. A private hospital. Dic Stanley paid for that but I never saw him again. One night before I left I had a couple of visitors. Two guys who could have been bookends. They looked exactly alike, dressed exactly alike, and their equipment was the same-nine-millimeter Luger automatics with silencers on the end, which they aligned on me. Nobody saw them come and nobody saw them go. But they delivered a message I could not ignore. Dic Stanley had a new partner, the Syndicate. They said, 'You want to stay alive, you forget you ever had anything to do with him. Start something and you'll have a fatal accident. And Dic will be well-alibied when it happens.' "I chose to live. If you can call this living. I'm a target as long as I'm alive. You could get me killed if you tell this story around." He began to sob.
"Well, why did you tell it to me?" I demanded. I felt pretty much like the next target in the butts.
"I just had to tell someone. Besides I'm drunk. Anyhow, how can you believe a drunken old queen? And if you use the story you're in trouble with the Syndicate, too." Socks guffawed at me, spraying me with saliva. "You poor schnook. You can't tell anyone the story. There'll be a contract out on both of us the minute you do. Why don't you forget about it and move in with an old fag who could make you happy?"
I left him sitting there in the dark tavern and returned to my hotel, where I did a lot of thinking. Then I phoned my friend at the studio. He gave me another number to phone and I dialed it. It took two minutes to set up an appointment with a certain police lieutenant, who agreed to meet me and discuss a story off the record to oblige an old friend.
We met on a corner in the San Fernando Valley and drove up into the Angeles National Forest, where we found a secluded place to talk.
When I had finished, the lieutenant nodded. "That's about the way we have it," he said.
"Then why haven't you busted someone?"
"No evidence, only hearsay," he told me. "Your fag footballer has powerful protection from the Syndicate. His sweetheart stands high in the organization and is paying for all the new clubs he opens up. There has never been a beef about any of the places, so we can't move in. But don't think we aren't watching and waiting. Someday, someone is going to get hurt in one of Stanley's places and we'll be there to bust everyone. We've got men on the inside. We can wait. But you'd better be damn careful what you print-or what you say around this town. We wouldn't like having you killed in our jurisdiction."
I dropped the lieutenant off and returned to the hotel for some more thinking. Right away I decided there was no sense in alerting my subject by seeking a personal interview. I already knew all the pertinent facts about this athletic homo who had parlayed his sex habits into a fortune and power. And he knew nothing about me. Nor did his Syndicate pals. The philandering financier Barton Glendahl was discomfited for a moment when his boss walked into his hotel room and discovered him "eating" two prostitutes, but he didn't let it become the end of his world. I got the story from one of the two prostitutes who were involved in the scene. It led me to check up on Mr. Glendahl and his savings and loan association. What follows is the story I painstakingly pieced together.
Bart Glendahl entered the savings and loan field as an appraiser for a small association. Because he had a larger than average measure of the acuity it takes to appraise a risk, he was soon made a loan officer. The good name he made for himself on this job brought him his next big break, a job as executive officer of a savings and loan association in a small town near an army base. Since the salary was considerably higher than before, he decided to marry the pretty teller who had been taking care of his sex needs. It was much more practical, he reasoned, than commuting.
She was good in bed, but Bart had a strong need for variety. He tried to sublimate his urge for outside variety by submerging himself in his work. He drove his staff relentlessly, paying them little, but demanding long hours and faithful service. Labor turnover didn't bother him because there were always plenty of servicemen's wives looking for temporary work. They'd stay for six months and then move on to another camp, or go home, if their husbands were ordered overseas. Meanwhile, Bart had their best work at lowest possible wages.
Of course, he paid executive help on a better scale, but increases were given only as a last resort.
There was a ready demand for loans in the small town, but not enough capital to make those loans from the savings operations. Bart set out to induce large firms to set up in his little town and use his company's service to increase their savings balances. Credit unions, particularly, found they could do much better than ordinary bank interest by putting their money to work for Bart, who had an uncanny ability to evaluate loan risks. It seemed as though he couldn't make a mistake. The association prospered mightily.
Bart's wife, Lillian, did her best to make him relax and enjoy the better things his increased salary had brought them, but guilt had set in within him. He felt that he had done himself wrong, had married for something he could have gotten without tying himself to one women. After all, he reasoned, he had had it from her for three years before they were married. So, even while he lay with her, his thoughts were on other chances. He faithfully fucked her three nights a week, but another woman was on his mind each time it happened. He hadn't had this other women yet, though he had decided it was inevitable. His target was his secretary, Wanda.
Wanda was single, beautiful, well-built, a native of the small town in which the association was located, and oversexed. He decided on a very direct approach.
The opportunity came one night when he had kept her after hours to finish some dictation. The session dragged on wearily while he gave her letter after letter. When he finally finished dictating, he rose from his seat and stretched to get the kinks out of his muscles and loosen his joints. Then he dropped back into the big, overstuffed armchair behind his desk.
Across from him, Wanda set down her note pad and yawned. She stretched, arching her back, throwing her well-proportioned breasts forward and up against the fabric of her blouse. Bart noticed their perfection and responded immediately with a hard-on. He left his chair and took her in his arms, lifted her and carried her to his chair. He sat down with her squarely on his lap. There was no way she could ignore his erection.
I have met Wanda. She is now working in a house in Cleveland. She told me she never really loved Bart, but he had an animal virility you could almost smell. And he was her boss. She figured an affair with the boss ought to be worth a raise in pay and other fringe benefits. So, when it became obvious that her boss "had a hard-on for her" (as she put it), she leaned forward and kissed him, flirting her tongue into his mouth.
His erection became almost painful. He put a hand on one of her breasts and squeezed it gently, whispering, "How'd you like a twenty-five-dollar raise?"
She shook her head to that offer and to the next two.
"How much would it take?" he asked her.
"One hundred bucks per."
He released her breast, "uh-uh," he said. "You should have settled for seventy-five. Now it's fifty bucks or forget the whole thing."
"Oh, well," she said, "it's better than $25."
He raised her high enough to remove her skirt and panties, baring the bushy black hair that practically hid her cunt. He slid two fingers in by way of an inspection of her glistening opening.
She thought he was about to undress her and make passionate love, but he merely unzipped his trousers and released his rigid prick, pulled her into a convenient position straddling it, and thrust savagely upward at and into her until he spasmed and ejaculated. Then he tossed her aside and went into his private washroom.
She had dressed and was about to leave when he returned. "Not yet, it's still early," he said. She waited while he phoned Lillian and told her he'd be very late, not to wait up because he might go for a ride into the country to unwind before going home.
They drove to a neighboring city, where Bart had never visited and thought it unlikely that he'd be recognized. He made her register at the motel while he waited in the car.
She says she almost left him then, but she had a fifty-dollar raise to protect. Instead, she signed the card, paid for the room in advance, and took the key. She was sure that the manager knew what they were up to. She was just as sure he didn't care.
"Strip down," Bart told her as he began to undress himself. She was surprised. Other men had insisted on disrobing her, to their considerable delight. But there was that raise to consider-and more would come if she was not squeamish, she told herself.
They finished undressing at about the same time. She lay down on the bed silently, arranging herself as seductively as she knew how.
Without further comment, Bart Glendahl pulled her legs apart, rammed his erect cock into her, and rapidly push-pulled himself to an ejaculation.
Wanda was disgusted beyond discretion. "Goddamn!" she shouted. "That was rape! You've already come and I haven't started for the place yet."
"Listen to me," Bart told her. "This is a business arrangement. For the occasional use of your pussy I'm giving you a fifty-buck raise. It doesn't excite my ass whether you enjoy it or not. But I'm not done yet ... "
His eyes were on her generous breasts. In spite of her frustration, he had obviously stirred her to a certain height of passion, for her nipples were standing erect-lush purple plums, ripe for the tasting. He took one into his mouth, sucked gently, tickled the tip with his tongue, then bit it hard enough to make her cry out.
Her breathing quickened and her smooth, white body began to sweat. She arched her back seductively.
He erected again, mounted her, and jammed his cock into her, withdrew it part way and jammed it back violently. He continued to thrust and withdraw viciously and she climaxed twice before he ejaculated again.
She lay back on the bed languidly, about to drop off into an exhausted slumber.
"Get dressed, we're going back right away," he told her.
"Oh, why can't we get a little rest first?" she smiled coyly. "With an hour's sleep we could do the whole thing over again. I'd be awfully good to you."
"Get dressed," he insisted. "I've got to get back. My wife will be waiting up for me and I'll have to fuck her too, or she'll be suspicious."
The affair went on for several months at white heat, at least for Bart. He seemed to want to make up for a long time of continence. He gave Wanda another fifty-dollar raise and instructed her to get her own apartment.
This was what she had been waiting for. It was her chance to break away from her parents and to use Bart Glendahl's "generosity" to her own advantage. It made affairs with other men easier for her. As Wanda told me later, she "had hot pants for other men because Bart never bothered to see that she was satisfied." He got it over with and went right on home. "He might have been putting it into some kind of a slot machine," she added with disgust.
She developed a special liaison with Jack Ball, Bart's savings officer, who got into the habit of dropping in at night after Bart had left, to enjoy what Bart had warmed up for him. Jack even moved into an apartment across the street from Wanda's to make access easier.
Wanda told me that Jack was much better at making love than Bart. "He always made me come, never went home until I was happy. But he couldn't give me those big salary increases and those presents."
Eventually, Barton Glendahl realized Wanda had another man on the string. When a bit of checking around revealed to him that Jack Ball had moved to a flat across the street from Wanda's, Bart felt he had found the man who was cutting in on what he was paying for. One night, Bart returned to the apartment well after midnight and let himself in with his own key. He slipped into the dark bedroom and flipped on the lights.
Wanda sat up in bed, blinking in the sudden light. She was nude, one breast in full view from out of the cover she clutched around her. Her eyes widened, she seemed about to scream.
He snapped at her, "Be quiet. Where's Jack?"
"Jack who? What are you talking about?"
"Don't smartass me. I know you've been seeing him. I know he walks in when I walk out."
"You'll never prove it."
"No?" He pulled the light cover off her and wrenched her legs apart. There was considerably more moisture and other residue clinging to her cunt than the excitement of the moment could have induced.
"See!" he shouted.
"Well, it's my pussy. You don't own it. Don't you lay a fuckin' hand on me. How'd you like me to tell your wife about our little establishment?"
Bart was ablaze with fury. "If you're going to act like a bitch in heat with every fucker who happens by, I'll treat you that way, too!" He yanked her from the bed and turned her around to face it. He thrust her forward so that she stood bent, with her rear up but her head, shoulders, and arms were pressed against the bed.
Her asshole was completely unprotected, and he kicked at her legs so that they spread and brought the hairy lips of her vagina in view. He stripped off his belt and lashed viciously at her bottom, sparing none of the delicate parts. She trembled and moaned, without control.
He threw the belt aside and unzipped his trousers. Grasping the outer labia, he spread them apart, exposing the inflamed inner surfaces and her clitoris. Mounting her from the rear, he forced his stiff organ into her at an awkward angle that could only hurt her. It was brutal rape, like a stallion at stud, and he kept it up furiously until he had spent several times.
by then, she was a gibbering wreck, unable to move or talk.
"Don't come to the office tomorrow until the others are out for lunch. You can pick up your last check. There'll be enough extra in it to get you out of town forever." He glared at her. "And don't count on any help from Jack. He's through, too, the minute he comes through the door in the morning. Fired. And stay away from my wife-or I'll strangle you with my bare hands!"
Note that Bart Glendahl closed out the affair of Wanda like a withdrawn savings account with no balance. It seems to have been a characteristic that he handled, love, sex, hate, or any other personal relationship, like a business deal. He showed no remorse when other people were hurt by his cruel actions and he closed the books on them with a mighty thud.
Some time later, the savings and loan association Bart headed was acquired by a holding company and, though he continued to head it, he became involved more and more actively in the operations of the holding company. Other transactions, in which he figured prominently, added more associations to the group held by the parent company and Bart often had to go to Washington to arrange details with federal agencies.
So adept was he at dealing with governmental agencies that the president of the holding company, Henry A. Mount, insisted on taking him along whenever something ticklish needed handling.
Which brings us up to the events of the evening I had begun to describe at the beginning of this
CHAPTER. On that day, Mount and Glendahl had appeared before a Senate investigating committee. Bart had handled his testimony with his usual brilliance and things looked completely favorable for the company.
After the hearing, Mount had several personal appointments, so Bart returned to the hotel alone. He was wound up tighter than a jammed watch from the tensions of the day. He needed something more than just two aspirins. In short, he needed a woman. To avoid the tedium of a mock flirtation with some unattached woman in the bar until she indicated a willingness to bed with him, Bart stopped at the bell captain's desk and asked him to send two prostitutes up to his room.
The bell captain knew that Bart and Mount had adjoining and connecting rooms, and inferred that this was to be a little party for the two men. He promised to send the girls up right away.
But Bart had no intentions of sharing the girls with his associate. What he had in mind was a small orgy. When the two whores arrived he had already undressed and wore nothing but an oriental half coat-a sort of short kimono that left his penis peeping out below its hem.
The "girls" were of indeterminate age, one blonde, the other dark. Of better than average appearance, figure and grooming, they were definitely in the fifty-dollar-per-trick class. He instructed them to strip and cast his robe aside. While they undressed he sat like an ancient Roman emperor and watched, holding his prick in one hand and caressing its rigid length as he appraised the girls.
The blonde appeared to be the youngest. Her legs were long and shapely. Her tits were generous and jutting, with prominent uptilted nipples. Her buttocks were firm and rounded like a peach. She had blonde hair covering her pussy, which indicated that she was a natural blonde.
The brunette could have had Spanish blood. (She is the one who told me this part of the story.) Her breasts were larger, pear-shaped, and swayed with her movements. Her bottom was flatter, boyish, with dimples. Her pubic hair had been shaved and her clitoris was unusually well developed.
Both girls finished their undressing and posed for Bart enticingly. He was his usual blunt self with them. "Do you girls like to get eaten before fucking?"
They laughed. The blonde nodded eagerly.
"Okay, put on a show for me. Go down on each other."
These girls were evidently accustomed to strange requests from their clients. The blonde lay down on the rug and spread her legs. The brunette lay beside her, facing her crotch. She began to titillate the blonde's clitoris with her tongue's tip. The blonde sighed deeply and pushed her hips at the brunette's mouth.
"Don't just lie there," Bart told the blonde. "Eat her too."
She made a face, but pushed the brunette's legs apart, found her clitoris and tongued it, not with great enthusiasm. Bart watched the desire pass between them, mounting. They panted and increased the speed of their ministrations.
The blonde climaxed, then the brunette. But they kept it going until the blonde could no longer concentrate on her work.
The dark one's tongue raced around her cunt lips and clitoris, and the blonde could only lie there and writhe and moan.
It got to Bart. "Hold on," he said, "it's time for me to get into the orgy." He pushed the brunette over on her back. "I've never fucked a girl with a shaved pussy. Let's see how it goes in."
Obediently, the girl offered him access to her cunt. From its color and moist condition it was obvious she was ready for his insertion. He pushed his massive prick inside and sighed as it plumbed her depths. The brunette breathed gustily as he thrust deep and drew back alternately; while the blonde watched them-still panting, fingering her clitoris.
"Get down here," Bart told her, "and I'll gobble you for a while while I'm working on this one."
She dropped to the floor and maneuvered her pussy into position where he could eat her while pumping in and out of the older girl.
None of them heard the door to the connecting room being tried from the other side, or heard the knock.
None saw Henry A. Mount enter the room.
He didn't see them either, at first. "I'm sorry to intrude, Bart," he began, then noticed the action on the floor. His voice gave out as he stood spellbound, watching Barton Glendahl, the prominent banker, whose face was buried in a blonde's crotch while his cock was buried in a brunette's.
Mount's face fell. "Excuse me," he mumbled, and retreated hastily. He slammed the door behind himself.
Bart stopped at the crack of the slam. He realized instantly what had happened. "Get out of here," he told the girls, "the party's over." Then they heard him say to himself, "I'll get that peeping bastard!"
Bart's revenge came in full some time later. The holding company absorbed another large association in a big town and Bart was transferred to it as a vice-president. He saw this as a device of Henry A. Mount's for getting him out of the picture. But he didn't let it end his career. He threw himself into the reorganization and operation of the new company and eventually was raised to the position of executive vice-president as a mark of the president of the new company's personal esteem for him.
In the next phase of his plan, he carried on a whispering campaign against Henry A. Mount, planting doubts as to whether Mount was really fit to head the parent holding company. When there were enough dissidents on his side, including his immediate boss, they set out to quietly buy up stock and tie up proxies in the holding company.
Within two years they had enough stock and proxies to elect a majority to the board of directors. Bart's ally, the president of his company, became chairman of the board, while Bart became president of the holding company. He personally informed Henry A. Mount that his services were no longer required. His revenge was sweet.
And thorough. Bart had things tied up so that nobody else could ever put over a coup like his.
And he was very careful. At home he's still the very personification of a loving husband. He does not trifle with the girls in his office.
His work still takes him often to Washington, D.C. But he goes alone, so he can have his fun in private. And he locks his hotel room doors.
Or so the house detective tells me.
THE SEXY LADY AUTHOR
You have probably seen her byline on a hundred books and magazine articles: Giulia Lathrop Sterling. Actually her name is Giulia Emily Lathrop Sterling von Eltz Sedgewick Mertz Callahan.
As a matter-of-fact, her name may be longer by now. There's no telling how many men she may have married and divorced since I saw her last. But when she signs a letter, book or article, I'm sure she still uses Giulia Lathrop Sterling. She always said it was a perfect fit on royalty checks.
I met her in Fanny Milton's whorehouse in Toledo. No, she wasn't a customer. She worked there. "Looking for local color," she said, "one must keep up with the times."
She knew my old friend andmentor, Falstaff Merkin, from the time he published her first article. But it wasn't he who put me on to her. It was my other friend, Big Eva.
We were sitting around my usual table, just drinking Tuborg beer and talking, when Eva suddenly said "You ought to meet the girl in the room next to mine."
I lifted my glass to her gallantly and said, "As long as I have you I want no other. You are indeed 'a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman.'" She slapped my arm. "Don't hand me that malarkey. Better that you should write it down and use it in your thesis."
"You're right. Only Shakespeare wrote it first, for Love's Labour's Lost."
"Oh, I thought it was one of your best lines. Well, about this girl next door, she might be writing, too. The place is full of reference books and paper, a typewriter, files ... "
"Wait a minute! Do you think she could be a rival, bent on beating me into print with a thesis in my own field?"
"I hadn't thought it out that far yet. But you could be right."
"Then I have got to meet this mysterious writer. Wait a minute! Isn't this a whorehouse?"
"Yeah."
"So what's a writer doing in a whorehouse?"
"Well, you're here."
"Not me, luv. I'm not one of the working girls."
"She is. And when she's alone she writes. That is, I hear her typing a lot. It carries through the wall."
"What's her name?"
"Emily Levy."
"No bells. Never heard of her. But I want to look. Bring her around to the table when you can."
About an hour later, when dawn was breaking over the city and milkmen were being mugged all over town, Eva brought this little blonde over to the table and introduced her to me, "Emily, Hendry; Hendry, Emily."
She was a beautiful woman, a vision of delight in miniature. My personal preference is for larger women in all parts, but ... Well, let me put it this way: if this woman I first knew as Emily Levy were five inches taller and her measurements were increased in proportion, I'd probably sell my soul for her. I asked her the obvious question: "What's a beautiful woman like you doing in a place like this?"
And she answered, "Selling my ass for a living."
I said, "I'll buy that," and blushed, despite my vow.
She gave me a look of disgust and remarked wryly, "That's the kind of crap I came here to get away from. Now if you'll excuse me ... "
"No, wait," I cried. "We got off to a bad beginning. I'll be more careful from now on." Then I tried to change the subject. "Eva tells me you write."
She appeared annoyed. "Some people talk too much. Maybe yes, maybe no. What's it to you?"
"Maybe we can exchange notes," I said. "I'm a sexologist. I'm working on a thesis about the relationship between the sex drive and the drive to make money. I'd be grateful for any help you could give me."
"It's possible," said Emily Levy. "I know something about it. My own field is true confessions. Actually, I'm here gathering material for an expose of white slavery in New Orleans."
"You're a long way off," I told her. "How can you do a New Orleans story in Toledo?"
"They know me in New Orleans. I couldn't get away with working in a whorehouse there. But I have all the background details and everybody screws pretty much the same way. Nobody's be looking for me here, and I can work in peace until I'm ready to go back home. Excuse me now, I've got a customer."
Emily Levy and I got to be "a regular thing," as they say, when she wasn't working. Though she wouldn't tell me anything about her book, she gave me suggestions for a whole series of sexology studies and checked out a lot of my facts. She also took to dropping by my apartment during the day, to tidy up the place, and type my final drafts of chapters. It was all very cozy.
Then one day I bought a copy of Mayflower Magazine. There was a lead story about White Slavery in New Orleans. The byline, Giulia Lathrop Sterling, didn't tell me anything, but the photo of the author sent me storming home. I knew she'd be there. At my typewriter. I was furious. "What kind of a stunt is this?" I roared.
"What is it?"
"You've been playing me for a sucker. I thought you were an amateur. Now you turn out to be a well-known lady author. And you let me brag about my work! You must have been laughing at me all the time!"
"No, Hendry, that's not so. You're a fine writer. I just couldn't tell anyone who or where I was. It had nothing to do with you. I just had to drop out of sight for a while to get away from myself."
And then she told me the story of her life.
Nothing much happened to Giulia until she was fourteen. She admits to some masturbation before that, but it was only to release feelings she could no longer repress. She knew about sex, felt that men were the normal instruments of women's sexual gratification, had no particular intention of waiting until she was married to enjoy sexual experimentation, but had no particular boy or man in mind to be her instrument.
Though small, she was fully developed of breast, hip, and thigh. Her most satisfying means of self-expression at the time was painting. She had begun by buying the essential paints and brushes and canvas, and had taught herself quite a lot about the use of form and color. At fourteen she asked her mother to let her enter formal art classes.
Mother was a bitch. Since dad was away on the road most of the time, mother had long ago taken to philandering. Having Giulia around the house cramped her style, so she would have agreed to Giulia's taking brain surgery classes if it kept the child out of the house for long periods of time. She quickly, eagerly, agreed to the art classes.
Giulia's tutor was a young Italian, a handsome devil with a real talent for painting. He was intensely virile of appearance and carriage. The women of the classes, young and old, were in love with him to greater or lesser degrees. It wasn't long before Giulia decided to make Roberto Rigatoni the instrument of her deliverance from childhood.
The opportunity for the opening of her campaign came when she stayed after class one evening to finish a painting while the inspiration was still fresh. Roberto was dividing his time between observing her work and painting away at a project of his own. When he did not get back to her after a particularly long interval, Giulia left her easel to see how he was faring.
He was standing before the easel, studying the figure on the canvas and shaking his head sadly. "She does not go right," he said aloud, "I work from the photograph, not the live model, and so the curves are not rounded as they should be. It is difficult to remember ... "
"Let me model for you," Giulia offered. "Then you can paint to exact details."
"But, my dear child, this is the painting of a woman. You are just the little girl."
"Dear Roberto," Giulia chided him, "you have not been looking where you should. Are these the breasts of a child?" She expanded her chest, throwing her ample breasts into greater relief behind her sweater and molding them with her hands. She watched Roberto for a positive reaction.
Sure enough, the stovepipe, tight legs of his jeans revealed an erection of impressive proportions. But he did not give in to desire. Not that day. Instead he said, "You are most right. It is the breasts that need the model. And you are the perfect model for the bosom. Come, cara mia, take off your sweater and pose topless for me."
Giulia crossed her arms at the hem of the sweater and pulled it over her head in one graceful motion. As she wore no brassiere, her full breasts bobbed temptingly with the motion. She smiled to herself. This must have been what Mona Lisa had in mind for Da Vinci, she thought. Surely she had Roberto in her spell.
Giulia fell naturally into the pose Roberto had selected for his painting. He picked up his brush and palette and began to paint quickly and with great enthusiasm. His eyes flickered back and forth between Giulia's breasts and his painting, and she noted that his interest wasn't all professional. There was a feverish gleam in his eye, for one thing, and, for another, his hard-on was positively outstanding.
As for Giulia, herself, her body was suffused with a warmth that made her glow. Her skin blushed all over. Her breasts stood firm and jaunty, with nipples erecting impudently from pink areolas. She found herself wondering what it would be like to have Roberto fuck her. Why not? she said to herself, surely no one would care. It would serve her folks right. Besides, she had to give it to someone soon or die of frustration. Why not give it to someone who knew how to take it?
After only a short hour and a half, Roberto threw down his brush. "It is enough for now," he said gruffly. He would not look into her eyes.
She walked over to the painting. It was much improved. It looked like her-in heat.
"It's good," she said. "I make a good model."
"Si, we finish tomorrow. Ciao."
Giulia returned home and took a long bath. She laved the warm, scented water over her feverish body. It brought only shivers of excitement to her. There was no mistaking the demand of her libido.
She rose from the perfumed water and enveloped herself in a huge terry bath sheet that thirstily drank the water from her body. Then she powdered all over, combed out her hair, made up her face carefully, and stepped into her bedroom to examine the overall result in a full-length mirror.
Standing very erect, she slowly removed the great towel, languorously revealing first her throat, then her bosom, belly, cunt, and legs. She cupped her hands about her breasts and fingered the enlarged nipples until they hurt from her touch. Lazily she moved her hands over her body, lightly brushing her belly and the insides of her legs; never touching her cunt or clitoris-only the soft hairs.
Gradually she gave herself over to the stimulation of her own touch. Her hips responded to the excitation rhythmically. She breathed rapidly through her mouth, inhaling her own scent. When the spirit really touched her, she threw herself across the bed, legs akimbo.
Giulia thrust a finger into her pussy and toyed with her clitoris. It was already erect, but firmed even more in response. Everything inside her was moist and warm. Gently she frigged herself, slowly at first, then faster ... deeper ... faster ... deeper ... until she was exciting the various organs deep within with several fingers-feeling it almost as though she were being fucked.
She thrust fast and deep, not afraid to hurt herself, until she suddenly spasmed into orgasm. Too weak to move, she lay there and slept until dinner time. When she left her bedroom, she was determined to fuck Roberto Rigatoni the very next day.
When the next day's class was done, Giulia remained behind. She had chosen to wear a caslimere sweater of coral, that clung closely to her upper curves, and a matching miniskirt that left no doubt in the mind of any onlooker that her legs were slender-but not too slender-and gracefully curved all the way up to her buttocks.
Roberto's eyes had been on her body all evening. He had been preoccupied and vague in his answers to questions. Several times, Giulia had noticed him easing the crotch of his constricting trousers when he believed himself unobserved. She was sure that she was the cause of all this uneasiness.
"The breasts need a little more work," he told her when they were alone. "Please to remove the sweater."
This was her moment. She shed the sweater in the same graceful motion that had excited him before. Her breasts bobbed out from confinement as if motioning to him.
Then, before he could move or speak, she undid the fastening of her miniskirt and let it drop to the floor. She stood very straight, in all her young beauty, wearing nothing but the long sheer hose the miniskirt demanded, held in place by a lacy elastic band. She heard the intake of his breath in one great gasp and was exultant. He did not move from the spot, but the brush he was holding snapped in two.
As if she had suddenly realized she was not completely nude, Giulia sat down on the modeling stand and slowly removed her stockings. She looked up at Roberto and said innocently, "Shall we begin?"
There was no painting done that day.
Roberto went to Giulia as though she were a vestal virgin of an ancient temple and he an uninhibited worshiper at a bacchanalian rite. He knelt before her and worshiped her with his eyes. When he had looked his fill at her beauty, he bent forward and embraced her hips. He planted a kiss on her cunt. She felt the room reel. It was light-just the merest brush of his lips-but her body began to prepare for the sacrifice of her maidenhead.
The lips of her pussy were engorged with hot blood. His soft-stiff tongue entered between them and his lips tasted hers. He licked her clitoris and she spasmed. Her arms, which were around his head, pulled him very close, in automatic reaction. He drew back against her embrace. "Careful, my love, you will smother me. Lie back and I shall demonstrate to you how a real Siciliano makes the love to a beautiful woman."
No one since, she has told me, ever gave her the tongue with such sweet fierceness. While she lay back, clutching at the dusty drape which masked the hard modeling platform, he kissed, licked, thrust with his tongue until she began to push back at him from the hips. He clung closely to her through her heaving, prolonging the licking until she went into wild, shuddering spending and cried out unintelligible words of love.
As she lay there in tired relief, he undressed, telling her, "And now, cara mia, it is time for the finale. I shall be gentle. You will be happy it is I who takes you for the first time."
She watched him disrobe and wondered whether she could open wide enough, whether her body were deep enough to take his cock. Would there be much pain? Much blood? She wanted very much for everything to be right.
He eased her back to full lying position on the platform and placed himself between her lovely legs. Her entire body was extremely sensitive. When he was near her it was as though he were already touching her. His massive prick was warm and exciting in its position just above her pussy. He leaned forward and kissed her navel, her nipples, then her mouth. She could not breathe. Her mouth went slack. His tongue stole between her lips, played with her tongue, teeth, the inside of her mouth.
She sucked his tongue in return. She bit his lips. She cried big tears for no sad reason. "Take me!" she pleaded. "I can't wait anymore!"
He raised only his hips. His arms remained around her. Without guidance, his prick found entry to her body. She shuddered as it reached her hymen and stopped. She tensed. His prick was snug in her sheath. She accommodated him well. But would he hurt her in taking her maidenhead?
She felt him draw back from the impeding tissue. She felt him bunch his body for the thrust. His mouth was tight on hers, sweet, reassuring. Suddenly, he pushed hard and was through, deep inside her. She cried out as he passed through the veil, but the pain was soon replaced by pleasure and wonder as he did delightful things within her. They rode together in muffled delight for many minutes.
He must have recognized the preliminary stirrings of her orgasm, for even as she felt them begin within her he rammed deeper and faster. At the precise moment she felt the first great tremor within her, his cock rammed to its farthest point and held there as its ejaculation began, and they finished the act together, gloriously. She fainted with the final surge of come and he lowered himself on top of her, tired to exhaustion.
When she recovered consciousness, he was still sheathed in her. And she was a very pleased young woman.
In the days that passed, Roberto made love to her in every way he knew. He also finished the painting and presented it to her, saying that what was between them was too precious to share with the rest of the world. Giulia gloried in their lovemaking, but she was in love with love, not Roberto. For, as their amours together achieved technical perfection, they also assumed a certain sameness and she began to wonder how it would be with other men.
A year went by and Roberto received an offer to return to his native Sicily to teach at the university. He told Giulia, "I am sad to think of leaving you, but it was there I trained on the scholarship and I owe them very much. Besides, it is a great honor and my parents will be most proud. The classes will not be so big, nor the language so difficult, and I can paint the great works that are in me."
She agreed that he was right to go and promised she would never forget him. But she was thinking that summer had come again and there would be young men to flirt with-new bodies, new thrills.
However, it wasn't that way at all.
Yes, there were a few new young men, but they were mere boys of little experience and Giulia found herself missing Roberto's attentions very much. She became very "up-tight," as the young people say, and took to masturbation for relief. But that was nothing like the way Roberto used to use his tongue to make her come alive. Nothing was right for her.
She had given up her painting long before, and was at loose ends for some project to occupy her time. She found herself spending much of it alone in her room, recalling Roberto's ministrations and fantasizing new affairs in which he returned and took her madly, passionately.
These episodes were so vivid that she felt impelled to enter them in her secret diary. Then, one day she sat down at her typewriter and turned one of them into a short story, which she sent to a magazine called Sunday Life (not to be confused with the Sunday Visitor). Falstaff Q. Merkin was editor and publisher of the Sunday Life in those days. He returned her first story with a long letter pointing out its defects but offering to buy it if she were writer enough to remedy them.
Her next draft sold without corrections and she decided to make a career of writing short stories and articles. Fortunately, she didn't have to worry about supporting herself while she wrote, because success came slowly. But she stuck to writing as a way to get out on her own. She was at odds with her bitchy mother, her father seldom came home, and seldom stayed home for long if he did, so she wanted out. Besides, she had decided that being on her own was the way to get the freedom and love she desperately needed.
When the checks began coming in with reasonable regularity and her bank account showed enough figures and zeroes on the correct side of the decimal point, she found herself an apartment on the far side of town from her parental abode and embarked valiantly on a life of her own.
She ran out of stories based on her romance with Roberto and found herself without new material. Too many manuscripts were returned with notes from formerly friendly editors who asked for something that wasn't "the same old story rehashed," and Giulia started casting around for new material. She reasoned that her stories had come from her lovelife, so she needed a new lovelife for new material.
Giulia decided she had to begin a new life where new men could see her and be taken with her charms. She went to an employment agency and was listed for office jobs under the name of Emily Lathrop. Her typing experience and decorative appearance got her into the typing pool at Bassett-Fox & Greatheart, a publishing firm to which Giulia, fortunately, had never submitted anything. That is where she met Arthur von Eltz.
Arthur was director of book advertising, a tall, patrician European who had come to the United States after World War II and worked his way up from proofreader through many other jobs at B-F&G. His English was perfect and he had acquired an American outlook on advertising and exploitation that sold books like hotcakes.
It was rumored that he was a member of a Prussian officer family from Germany, but he never spoke about his life before coming to America. In fact, he rarely spoke at all, which gave him an air of mystery that the girls found attractive.
Giulia met Arthur when she was assigned to his department temporarily, typing letters promoting a new sex-filled novel Arthur was exploiting. Arthur was taken with her charms, obviously, but he made no passes. Giulia began to wonder if he were queer or whether she had lost something important.
She toyed with the idea of staying late some night and presenting von Eltz with the opportunity for seducing her. But she had the feeling it would be repetitious-too much like her affair with Roberto-and would not improve her writing.
Giulia wondered what it would be like to be seduced in the afternoon. Or maybe in the morning. But she couldn't think of a way to bring it off. Fate arranged it for her one Saturday afternoon. The occasion was a cocktail party, at which Bassett-Fox & Greatheart was to introduce the author of that new and sexy novel to the critics.
Arthur had the responsibility for the party and had passed into her hands the duties of sending out invitations, choosing canapes, procuring decorations to relieve the harsh decor of the main office and, in general, to assist with the many details such an affair can include.
She had worked with verve, originality, and enthusiasm, hoping to gain his interest and attention at the party. But, when the guests arrived, there was a strange young woman demanding all of Arthur's time and attention. One of the stenographers told her the stranger was Ernestina Wreake-Havoc, a noted book critic-and also Arthur's fiancee.
Giulia was crushed. All her plans had fallen through. Why hadn't she checked on Arthur's outside involvements? She began to drink heavily, retreating with the bottle to Arthur's office for privacy.
Arthur, meanwhile, had his own problems. The party wasn't going right. For some reason, his fiancee had taken a strong dislike to the book he was promoting and was loudly telling the author exactly what was wrong with it. Furthermore, she was right. It was a bad book. And Ernestina Wreake-Havoc had the words to tell him so. Her fellow critics were standing around the pair, listening delightedly and noting down Ernestina's epigrams for use in their own columns.
Arthur fled to his office in panic. He wanted to be alone and was resentful when he found Giulia there, but there was no other sanctuary for him. So he decided to stay.
Giulia was high, stoned. She lay on the utility couch in gorgeous disarray, not caring that her open blouse revealed her breasts and her hiked-up skirt showed most of the length of her lovely legs. "Come on in, Artie," she shouted. "Have yourself a drinkie-if that she-wolf of a fiancee will let you out of her sight for a while."
She rose up on one elbow and poured him a tall straight whiskey. Stung by her taunt, he drank it down too quickly and poured another, which he knocked down his throat just as fast.
"Sit down and enjoy your privacy, old Arthur," Giulia teased, moving her legs about the sofa to make room for him. He stared at her panties through bleary eyes and carefully let himself down on the bit of cushion that was vacant between her legs. She whooped and caught him around the waist in a leg scissors.
"Now I've got you! That dry old bitch can't have you back!"
"Oh, can't she?" said a voice from the doorway. Both looked up into the face of Ernestina Wreake-Havoc, lady critic.
She addressed herself to Arthur. "What is this, Arthur? Have you been having a cheap affair behind my back? Who is this chippie? I'll run you out of the book business for this!"
Giulia spoke up in Arthur's defense. "Let him be, you dyke bitch. Don't fuddle him with your questions and carping. You only want to manage him, push him. He can make you look respectable if he marries you, but that's all he'll ever get. I'll bet you've never let him stick his prick into you." Giulia ranted on at Ernestina, letting out all her own frustrations. "What have you got that I can't give him more of and better? Why don't you go out and find yourself a broad with a nice pink pussy and leave Arthur to me?"
Ernestina Wreake-Havoc was what old-time authors call "taken aback." This attractive young woman had seen things about her that no one else had. It was very embarrassing. Very dangerous. And Arthur was just sitting there, blinking owlishly. It was time to depart with whatever dignity was left to her. She snorted. "You will be sorry for this, Arthur. You'll both be good and sorry for this. I'm not yet done with either of you!" And she stalked out, banging the door shut behind her.
Arthur looked at Giulia. Giulia looked at Arthur. He seemed about to say something. She loosened the leg scissors she had maintained around his waist. He slumped towards her, murmuring something unintelligible.
She reached down and rearranged her panties, saying, "Don't talk, Arthur. Lick something."
This is how our Giulia was finally seduced in the afternoon. It is also how she added the "von Eltz" to her name. I couldn't quite see it as a seduction, but Giulia did. "I just gave him the opportunity," she told me. "He did the rest. Surely you don't think it was rape?"
I had no answer.
After Ernestina's indignant exit, they had both passed out, Arthur with his head cradled on Guiulia's mound. When he awakened, he could not, at first, remember whether he had drunk from her loving cup or not. He only knew that he was stiff in many places, that there was a party going on in the outer office, and that most of his world had broken up. He eased himself up from the couch without awakening Giulia, arranged her more comfortably, locked the office door from the inside and staggered back.
He eased Giulia out of her blouse, skirt and panties, rid himself of his clothes, and joined her on the sofa in what is commonly known as the "sixty-nine" position.
Giulia awakened to the delightfully remembered sensation of a tongue at her clitoris. She thought she was dreaming of Roberto, but soon realized that a dream does not usually produce such tangible sensations. She opened her eyes to find a rampant cock before her face. She grasped it, and raised herself to see to whom it belonged. Arthur!
She sighed contentedly and placed the penis between her lips, cuddling the balls in their sac with tender hands.
Neither knew how long they lay this way. Suddenly he said, "I'm going to come."
She released him quickly and pulled herself away from him. "Not yet, please. Not yet."
Arthur could not control his ejaculation. She took it full in the breast as she rose from the couch.
Arthur could not control his ejaculation. She took it full in the breast as she rose from the couch. Arthur sighed and lay back, perfectly relaxed, completely limp.
Giulia used the reserve supplies of charged water and paper napkins to clean them both up. Then she cuddled back into Arthur's arms. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand. He nibbled on the other's nipple. She closed her hand on his depleted organ and gently squeezed it.
That sort of thing only leads to erections. Both her nipples, and his prick, soon became rigid enough for both their bodies to call for release.
Arthur didn't wait for an invitation. He mounted her and sank his cock into her cunt. She sighed happily. He thrust and pulled. She met him with reciprocating motions. Arthur raised himself between her legs. Still sheathed within her, he placed both hands on her pussy and resumed his plumbing of her depths. Using his thumbs, he also manipulated her clitoris in time to his thrusts.
She lost all conscious thought, and only responded mechanically, animalistically, to the double stimulation. She breathed in gasps, she cried out, she clawed his arms, she climaxed ... again ... again ... and once more before he came. As she fainted away, she heard him say, "Now you'll have to marry me."
So they were married. It would be a pleasure to end here with the cliche "And they lived happily ever after." For a while it looked as though that would be the case. Arthur and his "Emily" (for Giulia could not bring herself to tell him about her previous life, Roberto, and her writing) found a pleasant cottage in the suburbs where she could keep house for him and to which he could hurry home at night to make love.
Ernestina Wreake-Havoc had not really tried for her revenge. Evidently Giulia's remarks had struck too close to the mark, and she hadn't dared to risk the sharp edge of Giulia's tongue in another encounter.
Ernestina's one malicious trick had backfired. In an attempt to ruin the book, she had panned it unmercifully as "erotic" and falsely as "pornographic." It was like saying "Banned in Boston." She had included long and specific quotes. The public flocked to buy.
Arthur received a huge raise from B-F&G. He did not refuse it. Nor did he refuse the credit his fellow admen bestowed upon him for the campaign that allegedly sold all those books. He collected sixteen awards-which means he attended sixteen dreary dinners, ate sixteen portions of rubbery chicken, and made sixteen speeches-within sixteen days.
Arthur and Giulia were ecstatically in love, passed every night together in bed-busy, busy, busy.
But one, or two, can't live on love alone. After the first year, Giulia was thoroughly tired of home making and a thirst for the acclaim of the reading public. She was also tired of spending most of her time with the same man.
She sat down to the typewriter one morning and began a novel: the entire story of her triangle with Arthur and Ernestina, including some of her fantasized episodes, telling absolutely everything she could remember or imagine. When it was finished, she sent it off to a former publisher of her magazine pieces who had gone into hard-cover book publishing. It brought her $150,000. Then there were the book-club rights, magazine serialization, and a movie sale-for which she was invited to do the screenplay.
Without consulting her, Giulia's publisher used an old photograph of her on the back cover of the dust jacket and within minutes of the book's appearance the entire publishing world knew that Giulia Lathrop Sterling was also Emily von Eltz. Including Arthur von Eltz. The night he found out, he came home drunk, blacked both her eyes, cracked several ribs, and wished her luck in California-especially with her divorce.
She arrived in California with plenty of money for a long stay. Arthur-after all, he was a gentleman-gave her a generous settlement to boot. Giulia launched eagerly into her work on the screenplay, and began to play the field. It brought her a great deal of loving and, consequently, a lot of good material for future books.
When the picture was finished, she traveled all over the United States in search of "kicks" and more material. Returning to home base in Beverly Hills, she realized she was considerably the worse for wear and tear. She wanted to settle down and keep house for one man again.
Three marriages and three divorces followed. One set was with a movie magnate named Sedgewick, another with a plumbing supplies magnate (Mertz), and the third a politician who stole big (Callahan).
Giulia's love life with these men wasn't very different from what has already been related in these pages. Besides, she has already told all in three very successful novels, which you have either read or seen in the screen version. It does not have to be repeated here. We have already established the pattern of her sex drive-parallel with her drive for money, and as vigorous.
The last time I saw her she was mending a buttonhole on my coat. She told me she was leaving Fanny Milton's. "I'm finished with my work here," she said. "I want to go back to Beverly Hills, marry, and settle down with a loving man."
I laughed. "You mean you'll marry and settle up, after writing the complete story and selling the screen rights-the whole bundle for a big bundle-besides getting rid of your next husband for a pile of money. Whom have you in mind for your next real-life romance?"
She gazed long and longingly at me through passionate eyes. "Well, you and I have come to mean a lot to each other during the past few-"
"Oh, no!" I told her. "Not me!" And, without further ado, I took my coat from her hands, gathered up my hat, gloves, and every other item of my belongings I could find in a hurried search of her room, and took one long last look at her loveliness. I kissed her on the cheek and walked out forever.
If anyone becomes rich and famous from writing the lurid story of my love life, it will be me!
THE SECRETARY SEDUCER
I have traveled the whole of the United States in search of material. My work has taken me to such interesting sites as Coos Bay, Hocking County, even Athol. But it was in Festus, Missouri, that I added the case history which follows.
It was in a rather disreputable crib, and the girl who told it to me, Debby, was a former secretary who had managed to get herself knocked out of the business world. As a secretary, that is. It seems she once worked for a man named Farley D. Leader, an insurance executive, in a much larger town in Missouri. Because Farley was the boastful type who felt he had to tell his current amour all about his previous lovers, she learned a great deal about his early history.
For example, he told Debby that he had felt his tremendous sex drive from very early in life. He learned to masturbate in early puberty, but didn't find real direction for his drive until he managed to seduce a fellow high-school fresliman-a girl-who herself was eager for sexual experience and therefore very cooperative.
He served in the Army during World War II as a supply sergeant-not a glamorous occupation, but one that gave him considerable experience in paperwork and an idea of the complex workings of management. So, when he was discharged in 1946, he hurried home and married his best girl. Then he set out to find himself a job where he could use his training.
He took a temporary job as an insurance salesman, believing it was an ideal base to start building upon. Besides, his uncle owned the company. The uncle's influence wasn't necessary, beyond supplying Farley with the job opening. Once he got the hang of selling, his knowledge and patience with paperwork made it easy for him to complete successfully the many forms necessary to processing a policy sale.
He built up a record for sales and efficiency that made his fellow agents extremely jealous, and his expertise was soon noted by his superiors. Especially by his uncle, who took all the credit for having discovered Farley. Eventually, Farley was made a training supervisor in addition to his sales work. He received a percentage of the commissions of the men he trained, so it was a profitable promotion for him.
But there was all that paperwork. And paperwork meant night work. And night work meant time at the office until very late. Therefore, Farley would return home late at night, after his wife had gone to sleep, and there was little opportunity for what they had been used to doing every night.
You see, Farley began his wedded life by fucking his wife every night-two or three times most nights-which was what he thought most young married people did. He had been faithful since marriage, but the strain of continence on his libido was too much for a man conditioned to love every night. He began to covet his secretary, Debby.
Debby admits she gave Farley the opportunity. Her own sexual curiosity told her he had designs on her. The signs were unmistakable. So she used her charms to induce him to "make a play" for her. And her charms compared favorably with what many of our best movie actresses are showing on the screen today.
She provoked the initial incident when they were working late one night to complete some paperwork-the classic time for finagling. She had caught up with her typing and was waiting for him to dictate more data. Suddenly she threw down her pencil and pad and swore at her job, the hour, her boss, and everything else, in terse four-letter words. "Shit," she said in part, "there's so damned much work to this job that I never find time for what's fun!"
Farley looked Debby over boldly, from her long legs up-miniskirt, snug sweater over prominent breasts, lovely lips, flashing eyes, beautiful hair. He decided to go all the way. "With a figure like yours, I could have a lot of fun," he told Debby.
She feigned misunderstanding. "Oh, Mr. Leader, what would your wife say if you came home built like me?"
"You never can tell. She might decide to switch to girls. But that's not what I had in mind. And you know it in your pants. I'd like to get my hands on your figure and have a little fun with it."
She snorted. "All you men ever think about is sex. Why, even a stallion takes time out for something else."
"That's manure, sister. His only really alive time is when he's sinking that big dong of his into a red-hot mare."
"I don't mean to knock it," countered Debby. "I like to do it at the right time, with the right guy. But there're other things that're fun to do."
"Sure. Right. If you can afford them. But the equipment and the wardrobe come high. Like for scuba diving. That's why I go in for muff diving." He rose from his desk. "How's about it, Deb? Let's do it together."
She pretended to be resentful. "Just like that, huh? How'd you like for me to slug you if you try to attack me?"
"Ah, come on now, baby. You've just admitted you like to do it. So do I. Let's put our likes together. It could feel awfully good."
She feinted, as though to move away from him. He caught her in his arms. His hands cupped around her plump rump and he pressed her close to his crotch. She could feel that he was aroused and ready. She made a token struggle and warned, "If you don't let go I'll kick you where it will do the most harm."
He squeezed her ass tighter and said, "If you try that, I'll fix you so you can't kick at all."
She brought her knees up in a threat against his crotch. As she told me later, she kept up the struggle in order to make the conquest not too easy for him. Even at that moment she was planning future relations, if his delivery was as good as his promise.
He reached under her skirt and pulled her panties down below her knees, effectively hobbling her. He ran his fingers through the crinkly blonde growth of pubic hair, then penetrated her pussy with two fingers and seized her clitoris between them. Gently, he manipulated the clitoris, exerting very little pressure but stimulating it so she wanted more.
She could not withhold her response. Her breathing became quick and her round little rump twisted in circles. "Give it to me. Please, please, please," she begged.
He pushed her forward, over the edge of his desk, and parted her thighs so that the shining red lips of her vagina were easily accessible. Her panties had been lost in the struggle. There was nothing in his way. Farley undid his trousers and freed his engorged cock; then he sheathed it full length between the excited lower lips.
She sighed with pleasure, grasped the forward edges of the desk and held herself in position while he pumped vigorously. They climaxed together and he fell against her, keeping his organ within her warm body until all spasms had ceased.
After a while, she craned her neck to look back and complain, "That was more like rape than fun. Why don't we try it again on the sofa in the veep's office? Or, don't you think you're man enough to make me really like it?"
He was breathing hard, but he bragged, "I'm good enough for two women like you. Get out of those clothes and I'll prove it."
They moved into the adjoining office of the vice-president and she discarded her skirt, sweater and brassiere. She retained only her long nylon hose and highheeled shoes for added erotic stimulus. He came to her in the raw, on his knees, using his tongue and lips to excite her. He began by lavishing attention on her clitoris, then moved to her navel, shapely breasts, and at last to her lips and tongue.
Her nipples were rigid with excitement. Even before his insertion, she had an orgasm. The pungent sweat of her body made him want her more. He inserted his penis and pumped it within her more easily than before, tenderly, building her to a climax. He kissed her gently, adding to the pleasure. She held her position for as long as she could, but the exciting sensation got to her at last and she let her body get away from her in a paroxysm of response that quickly resulted in a multiple orgasm.
They lay silent for several minutes after they climaxed, then he said, "Debbie, honey, I'm crazy for your little quim, but it's time to make some more money. I'm going to give it to you one more time and that's it for tonight. But we'll do it again real soon."
As Farley's work came to include more training and less selling, he settled down to a routine that included long hours at the office and, of course, many long night sessions with Debby. When the vice-president's office was not available, they'd take off for a long dinner hour-with an exciting session afterward at one or another of the local motels which catered such affairs.
But it was not all as simple as it seemed. Debby had not told Farley that she was married. In fact, no one at the office was aware she was married, since she neither wore a wedding ring at the office, nor had she stated on her employment application that she had a husband. Actually, he wasn't much of a man in her eyes. She had cheated on him before. As long as Farley could give her the sex she wanted, she was prepared to make any necessary arrangement to fool her husband and continue to rendezvous with Farley. But her husband was not so stupid as to believe she was as busy and uninterested in love as she professed. One night he waited outside the office and followed them to dinner and then to a motel. It did not take much imagination, evidently, for him to deduce what was going on between Debby and Farley.
Debby told me he must have stood outside the motel until very late. She believed he did not break in and attempt to catch them in the act because Farley was much larger than her abject coward of a husband. Instead, the cuckold took his grievance to the vice-president who was Farley's immediate superior-the one whose office he so often used as a nocturnal play room.
The v.p. called Debbie and Farley on the carpet they had sometimes used for a bed and demanded to know if what had been reported to him were indeed true.
Debby, enraged, railed against her husband and swore she'd divorce him. She admitted her affair with Farley, but declared it was none of the company's business, since it had had no effect upon either's business efficiency.
The vice president readily admitted that the company couldn't run Debby's life. "Therefore," he said, "since the company can determine how to run its own affairs, we are firing you. Pick up your check and get out right now!" When Debby had slammed the door behind her, the v.p. turned to Farley. "I have no intention of firing you. Not now. You're too important to us. But the company has an image to maintain and from now on every female employee is out of bounds to you. Why do you risk such trouble when you have an attractive wife?"
Farley brazened it out. "I like to spread my loving around. Besides, I could get a job with any of our competitors tomorrow and do just as well as here."
"Maybe," said the vice-president, "but we have a contract with you that you might do well to read over. You agreed not to work for any competitor for six months after leaving us. Also, you'd lose all renewal commissions and overrides. Besides, we might have to let our competition know why you left us. Or, your wife might find out about this prank and divorce you for a big bundle. Any way you look at it, you might find this extramarital sex mighty expensive."
"Okay," Farley said flatly. "You've made your point. No more fucking with the hired help."
"That goes for Debby, too. You keep away from her and we may be able to keep this scandal quiet."
"Oh, hell. All right. I was getting a little tired of her, anyway."
Debby got her divorce and Farley kept her from involving the company by the straightforward stratagem of continuing to make love to her under very discreet circumstances. Eventually they tired of each other and broke off the relationship.
But Farley was the boastful type. He maintained contact with Debby and frequently phoned, visited, or wrote, to update her on the events of his love life. The reconstruction of events which follows are based on her memories and the letters she saved.
Farley avoided having affairs with more company employees. He told Debby that every new girl who joined the organization flirted with him and he could have "gotten all the free tail he wanted." But he wasn't about to get caught again.
However, he made a fine distinction between company employees and the employees of the maintenance company charged with the nightly renovation of the offices.
The Negro girl who cleaned Farley's office was evidently not of completely black ancestry. Her color was very light and her facial features were markedly caucasian. She moved catlike about her work. Her lithe body seemed to dance with her slightly pendulous but firm breasts, as she dusted, swept, and carried wastebaskets to and fro.
Farley took to extending his night working hours so he could be there when she arrived at about nine P.M. to do her chores. He made no secret of his lecherous desires and tried to lead her on with dirty little stories and sexual teasing. One night he asked her, "Frances, how often do you make love?"
She giggled.
"Come on, Francie, you can tell an old married man like me. I know you're not a virgin. You're a girl who wants her bit of fun, too. Are you married?"
"No."
"Well, then you must put out every so often-just to keep your complexion clear. Don't you?"
She grinned and nodded.
"So, let's stop beating about the bush. How's about letting me bang you?" He displayed a $5 bill.
"No, sir, Mr. Leader. I don't do it for money. I'm no whore."
He put the money away. "Okay, let's do it for fun then. No money."
She hesitated and was lost. He took her hesitation for complaisance, reached into her blouse and found warm and nubile breasts that responded to his touch. Her nipples stiffened. He heard her sudden intake of breath and knew she was his. He shifted his hands to her thighs beneath her full skirt, stroked them gently, moving ever closer to her vagina, flirting with her pubic hair, but never actually touching the sex organs.
Her body responded voluptuously. She closed her eyes and gave herself up entirely to the titillation of his touch. Her body twisted and humped as his hands approached her pussy. It reached out, calling for his attentions to her clitoris.
When instinct and experience told him she was ready, he sank his whole hand into the vagina, using the fingers to excite the clitoris and the adjoining blood-engorged sensitive surfaces.
She responded with ardor. Her kisses were like none he'd ever had before, velvet, moist, erotic. She was tender. She was hot. She demanded, "Fuck me!"
Farley stripped off the old clothes she wore for work. It was then he realized fully the beauty of her pale copper body. He carried her to the couch in the vice-president's office and tossed her there while he stripped out of his clothes.
She lay there, twitching, while he undressed. He moved his body over hers and sank his aroused dong deep into her. She was wild and uninhibited in her lovemaking. Savage, yet eager to please. He and she had orgasm after orgasm without losing their enthusiasm for what they were doing.
So excited was he at having intercourse with a woman of a different race that it was hours later when he was sated. He said to her, "You're a real woman, Francie. We'll have to do this often, won't we?"
And Frances answered, "That's for damn sure, Mr. Leader, Boss."
Farley returned home very late that night, to find his wife waiting up for him. She wore her most seductive nightgown and was obviously interested in making love.
But Farley could not be aroused, though she tried most ardently all the little tricks she had used in the early days of their marriage. Poor Farley had absolutely no remnants of desire after spending so much time and energy on Frances. A terrible argument ensued, during which his wife accused him of unfaithfulness. When he did not answer, she threatened to divorce him if he did not give up his "catting about."
Farley ignored the warning and saw much more of Frances. Until the night he visited her apartment and found his wife waiting there with a detective. When the divorce settlement took practically all of his savings and property, and most of his future earnings, he gave up Frances.
Fortunately for him, the company was willing to keep him on because he was invaluable as a training chief for new personnel. At least he did not have to go looking for another job on top of all his other troubles.
Then Farley caught an unexpected break. His wife remarried and he was suddenly free of the burden of alimony payments. He began to live again in the style to which he had been accustomed. He also found a new interest in life. Since he had so many men selling for him that his percentages of their commissions added up to about $40,000 per year, Farley gave up his personal sales work and began to perform public relations duties for the company.
He was soon in great demand as a speaker before service clubs in his home city. This led to his appointment on civic commissions and to a sexual adventure so strange that it must be included in this study of the sex habits of man and their relationship with his drive to make money. Like the rest of this case history, I am indebted to Debby for the details. Debby had, by then, left town and tried her luck at different jobs in different places with very poor results. She was a poor judge of men, and nymphomaniacal with those who "turned her on." Too often, she would find herself without job, man or money. Which led her ultimately to the decision to become a professional whore.
It was through one of her customers-a visitor from the old home town-that Farley found out where Debby had disappeared to. Whereupon he appeared at her room one night, wanting to purge himself of guilt feelings by telling her all about what had happened to him since she'd left town. To continue, Farley was appointed to a civic commission assigned to promote relations with a "sister-city" in Mexico. As an interchange of culture and business, the mayor of that sister-city invited the commission to visit his city on an official junket. The other members of the commission took their wives along. Farley found himself to be the only unattached male on the trip.
Naturally, this made him uncomfortable, and also quite conscious of a strong need for sexual servicing. So, the second evening in town, he sneaked away from the gala banquet, found himself a cab driver who could speak fairly understandable English, and went out on the town. He tried to make a pickup in several of the local hotel-bars, but was unsuccessful. Finally, somewhat the worse for overindulgence in margaritas he staggered back to his cab and demanded to be taken to a whorehouse. He promised the driver a large tip in pesos if the place was satisfactory.
The driver threaded his cab through heavy traffic with little regard for rights of way or the lives of pedestrians, burros, or chickens. After some miles, he pulled up in front of a small cantina plastered with advertisements for local brands of tequila, aguardiente, pulque, and beer.
Inside the cantina, live entertainment was furnished by a burly female dancer with a mustache, who stamped her feet a lot, accompanied by an equally burly male troubadour who could pass for her brother and sang off-key and probably off-color. The resemblance was made very complete by the mustache he wore.
The proprietor could have been their father. He was about the same size but considerably more wrinkled. He had the intimate leer of a pimp. Which he was. He spoke no English and Farley had to make all the arrangements with him through his cab driver.
When the proprietor understood that Farley wanted a woman, he offered him the burly dancer. But Farley felt there had to be something considerably better available. He shook his head vigorously.
The pimp produced three or four young girls, pretty but looking somewhat overused. One seemed still in her teens, more comely of leg and breast than the others, and reminded Farley of his old flame Frances because of her dusky skin. He took her hand and they went upstairs to her dim and dusty room. She slipped out of her loose dress and stretched on the bed, awaiting his pleasure.
Farley could see that though she was very young her figure showed budding voluptuousness. Her well-developed cunt, only partly hidden by curly black hair, aroused him so that he wasted no time in undressing, but freed his cock, mounted her, and penetrated full-length. In a matter of minutes he had lunged into her enough times to bring about his ejaculation.
Having satisfied his immediate craving, Farley examined this young prostitute at leisure. He decided she could be quite attractive with the proper clothes and grooming.
Evidently, unlike a hardened whore, she had responded to the ardor of his attack, for her small, soft, jaunty breasts were crowned by still stiff, eager, pink nipples. He played with them, springing them with his thumbs, varied the treatment by nibbling at them and kissing them. She spoke little inarticulate words of pleasure and her body arched involuntarily to his touch of her erogenous parts.
He transferred his attentions to the downy Venus mound that had first attracted him, stroking it gently, reaching ever closer to the lips of her pussy until they seemed to open in invitation like a flower unfolding to welcome a honeybee. Her clitoris was somewhat larger than usual, easy to find and extremely responsive to the touch. As he stroked it she murmured more clearly, words like exstasis, amor, mas, mas, mas (more, more, more) and mi hombre, el gallo norteamericano. She fondled his body in a like manner, concentrating her attention to his penis and his cojones.
This concentration of their attentions upon the sexual organs gradually brought them into the sixty-nine position and Farley did something he had never done before. He sank his tongue into her cunt and licked it vigorously.
Evidently she was not accustomed to the more subtle forms of lovemaking, because the feel of his tongue within her aroused her to all sorts of violent reactions and expressions of joy, but failed to induce her to give similar oral attention to his organ. Instead, she clung madly to his hardened prick with both hands. Suddenly she began to writhe in orgasm. Simultaneously he ejaculated in every direction.
They lay together for about an hour, mustering their strength. He wondered about her: how she had become a prostitute; how she would look with a bath and the right clothes. He wished he could talk with her. Slipping into his trousers, he sought out the proprietor and explained, with difficulty, that he was keeping the girl for several more hours and that he wanted the taxi driver sent to the room. More money exchanged hands.
Through the driver, he got the girl's story from her. She had been a maid in a local hotel, working long hours for a very tiny salary which her shiftless father had taken from her every payday, allowing her only enough for an occasional dress or a pair of huaraches.
One day she was approached outside the hotel by a well-dressed woman who had proposed a way to better her lot. In short, this girl, Josefina, had been recruited as a ramera or prostituta and had gone willingly because of the hopelessness of her lot at the hotel.
Her father did not know where she was, which was the only blessing about her new position. Otherwise, she was simply employed at another sort of drudgery, because most of her earnings had to go into paying off her pimp for room, board, medicine, commissions, etc., and it seemed as though she would never be free.
Farley Leader's heart was touched. He asked the driver to find out how much she actually owed the proprietor of this crib. The cabbie and the pimp haggled for some time but finally settled on the sum of $200 as the price of Josefina's freedom. Farley paid and, having magnanimously assuaged his conscience, told the cab driver to take him somewhere for a drink and maybe some different-colored cunt.
"The girl must leave here also," said the driver. "Otherwise they will force her to remain until some other norteamericano comes along to buy her out of her slavery. Which may be a very long time."
Farley had not reckoned the consequences of his impetuous act of charity. Sexual excitement and alcohol had brought him to an act he might never have done cold sober. He decided to go along with the inevitable. Since he had bought himself a young prostitute, he accepted her as a responsibility-at least for the duration of his short stay in Mexico.
He took Josefina back to his hotel, told the cab driver to return for them in the morning, sneaked her up to his room, and they made passionate love intermittently all night. Between bouts they slept. Farley awoke when the desk clerk phoned to tell him the driver was waiting downstairs. He made the driver wait a while longer while he personally bathed Josefina. She looked so beautiful, pink and clean when he had finished, that he tossed her on the bed and had another go at her. Then he helped her comb her hair and make herself reasonably presentable in the only dress she had brought.
They left by the front door, with Farley trying to look as though he were alone, and went off with the taxi driver to find breakfast and then a new wardrobe for Josefina.
In her new clothes she was quite presentable, but Farley knew that introducing Josefina to the other members of his delegation would only cause a lot of gossip when they returned home. So he kept her hidden in his room and absented himself from the various civic activities he was expected to attend. His excuse was stomach trouble from the local water or food. Of course, this subterfuge did not succeed with the employees of the hotel. Farley paid out much more in mordita (bribes) than the per them he was allowed as a member of the commission, but he noted it down as "entertainment expense."
Josefina was young, eager and imaginative, and as the days rolled by they discovered many new ways to stimulate themselves to intercourse. It was a dream world of eat, sleep, and fuck-not in that order but with ardor.
At last came the day when Farley had to leave for home. It was also the very last minute for a decision on what to do with Josefina. Logically, he could not take her back to the States with him. She didn't fit into his world. They couldn't converse about the simplest things in life except in the elementary sign language of excited flesh. Besides, Farley was tiring of the relationship, though he would not admit it. He had become very conscious of the difference in their ages and of the great weariness that was becoming his usual state.
Nevertheless, he was also quite conscious of his great responsibility to the girl he had bought out of a house of prostitution. And, perhaps he had the feeling that he would like one of his love affairs to have a happier ending than the others.
So, he sent for the taxi driver who had been so helpful before and asked for his advice. The driver, a man in his fifties, had a practical solution. "Senor," he said, "my wife and I no longer have children to help us around the house. Also, she is not well. She could use a good, strong girl to help with the housework, to carry things from the market, to cook.
"We would treat her as our own daughter and, in time, perhaps she would find a fine young man to marry her. That is, if you will see that there is money enough for her keep for the next few years and perhaps 100 pesos or so for her dowry."
Farley was overjoyed. He quickly agreed.
"Well, then," said the driver, "we will go and ask my wife. For I have no wish to take this upon myself without her agreement. I could find myself saddled with two women who hate me."
Farley asked the cabbie to explain the arrangement to Josefina. When he had finished she went into a torrent of tears and Spanish, throwing her arms about Farley and clinging very close.
"What is she saying?" Farley queried.
"She wants to go with you to the Estados Unidos and be your wife."
"Tell her it is impossible. I have a wife back there," Farley lied.
She replied something which the driver translated as "She will go with you and be your slave. She loves you and cannot live without you."
"Tell her it cannot be. We don't do that sort of thing in the States. Remind her I will provide for her so that she will never have to work again."
The driver was eloquent and at last Josefina agreed to the arrangement. Of course it was all dependent upon acceptance by the driver's wife, but Farley believed he could be equally eloquent with her. Farley was certain he would catch his plane on time and alone.
However, Josefina's clinging and her tears had aroused him, so he asked the driver to wait downstairs while he comforted the senorita. This request didn't deceive the driver, but it saved Farley's face. As soon as the old man had gone he kissed Josefina and removed her dress and the fancy underwear he had bought her.
She was still sweet and perfumed from her morning bath and he could not wait for foreplay. He undressed hurriedly and immediately plunged into her, full-length. She was dry and cried out from the pain of the insertion, but in a little while she responded to his thrusts, her vagina moistening until his shaft was sliding smoothly in and out.
She shook and twisted and cried out. She raked his back with her fingernails. She threw her legs around him and clung tightly until she spent. Then he also came, urged to ejaculate by the violence of her spasms. Several times they repeated this performance, then they dressed and bundled her extra clothes in a small parcel and set off to see the old woman whose consent was the final requirement to their parting arrangement.
Josefina and the cab driver's wife took to each other at once. Or else the old woman was shrewd enough to realize the financial advantages of the arrangement-and too wise to be jealous. Together they served Farley and the old man a fine Mexican dinner, the kind you don't get in restaurants in the States.
There was another tearful farewell with Josefina and then Farley had the old cab driver take him back to the hotel for his luggage and then to the aeropuerto. He wanted to avoid the company of his friends from home for as long as possible, which was why he did not use the airport limousine from the hotel.
At the airport, Farley took the cabbie's name and address, gave him $300, and promised to send more soon.
When he had returned to the States and had time to think, Farley's attitude towards Josefina changed. He decided he had done enough for her by getting her out of the whorehouse and giving her the clothes and money to catch herself a husband. He was sure she was too passionate a piece to stay faithful and would soon have another man to protect her. So he sent her only a token payment of $30 per month for the next three months. Then her letter came.
It had evidently been written by some English-speaking native who wrote letters for others in the market place. It was flowery in language, thanked him, remembered him with love, then concluded, "I am with child. Lovingly, Josefina."
So there it was. A new dilemma. A child. And it was very likely his. Surely in the crib she worked in she had taken care against such accidents. But in the violent and frequent love actions in his hotel room there had been no thought of douching or using contraceptives.
At first he was elated. After all, it was his first child, however illegitimate. Then he panicked. What would he do with a child? Next she'd want him to marry her and bring this little Mexican back to the States, to live with him and spoil all his outside arrangements. No, sir! He didn't want a wife or a kid!
Farley cold-bloodedly sat down and calculated what it could cost for pre-and postnatal care, and for support of mother and child for about three years-which was the maximum his conscience dictated. It came to about $2,000. He bought an international money order and an English-Spanish dictionary. He sent the money to Josefina with a laboriously composed letter explaining what it covered and that he considered his obligation at an end.
To cover his tracks, he moved to a new apartment and left no forwarding address. That, he thought, would end the whole episode.
But it didn't. Within the year another letter found him through the tracing efforts of the post office. This one told of the death of the child, a son, and that Josefina was keeping company with a young taxi driver. They had used what was left of the money Farley had sent to purchase a new cab and would soon marry and live happily ever after on its earnings. Josefina closed with great affection and thanks.
That night and the next day Farley stayed home and cried a lot. Then he made the long trip to visit Debby, hoping to find some consolation. But, though they tried very hard to recapture what had once been between them, these two sad people could not make a go of it.
He was repelled at the thought of any lasting relationship with another whore, so he returned home to his job. He's still there. Making money, but completely unattached to any woman. And very lonely.
THE SINGING LADY WITH ROUND HEELS
It was in a whorehouse in Elko, Nevada, that I heard the story of how Brandy Buskirke got her start. I was passing through on my way to Las Vegas for some scientific research and stopped off in the best house in town to present the compliments of my friend, Fanny Milton of Toledo.
Fanny must know every madam in every town in every state of this great nation. Every time I took a trip I'd telephone her a day or so before and say, "Fan, dear, I'm off for Elko (or Beverly Hills, or Philadelphia, or Coeur d'Alene)," and she'd say, "Be sure to look up Carrie Cleland (or Polly Adler, or Eloise Deesod). She'll see that you get the best of everything in town."
And it usually turned out that way. Nothing is ever too good for a friend of Fanny Milton. I have gotten some of my best pieceser, case histories-that way. Like this one.
The madam in Elko was named Ivy MacMann. She was that strange and beautiful mixture of Mexican-Irish that is so very attractive to the men of the Southwest. But she is not the central character of this
CHAPTER and I shouldn't spend too much time telling you of her charms in this study. Perhaps some other time. Anyway, what she did for me that is important to this case was to invite me to dinner in her private rooms.
After the food and drink, she lit a panatela for me and one for herself. We smoked in silence, before the crackling fireplace for a while and then she asked me what had brought me to Elko.
I'm not one to hide my light under a bushel basket, so when a good-looking woman gives me an opening I tell her all about myself. Before I knew it, hours had passed and I had told her all about my book, and how much I had learned from the various whores and mariposas de la noche I had met, about the true sex lives of the subjects I had investigated. I paused to light another cigar and Ivy MacMann flicked on the radio. Instantly the room was filled with a woman's voice singing a sweet sad song.
"Now there's a girl you ought to meet," said Ivy. "It's Brandy Buskirke-Lurene Feldkamp, she was-and she got her professional start right here."
Noting the startled look on my face, Ivy continued, "No, not singing. We don't get much call for girls who can sing a customer off. She was a whore when she worked here. And I hear she's still a whore. But a rich one now. One of my special customers says she screwed her way to the top. Too bad she had to do it that way. She has the looks and the voice to make it without her other talent.
"We all called her 'Lusty Lurene' when she worked here, because she could take on almost any number of tricks in any one night. You'll probably tell me you know a lot of whores who do that, but Lurene liked what she was doing. She had an orgasm with every trick. And that takes a lot out of a girl.
"I'll tell you what. You should talk to the guy who brought her to me in the first place-one of the local studs. He can probably give you more of her early background than I can.
"Then, since you're going on to Las Vegas, I'll give you the address of Link Helbrun. He's playing guitar in a combo there. He's the guy Lurene left with to make her fortune as a singer. I guess he can steer you from there. Tell him I'm not mad at him anymore.
"But for right now, seeing that it's four A.M., let me fix you up with a place to sleep. You can get an early start in the morning."
The night passed quickly and I left Ivy MacMann's place right after breakfast to hunt up Dave Morgan, the stud to whom she had promised to steer me. I found the address without too much trouble. That is, I found the house in front of it, and a busty beauty who was coming down the path from the rear of the lot pointed the way to his little shack in the back, winked at me, and walked away swinging her purse and nearly everything else she had.
Dave Morgan answered my knock by peering myopically out through the cracked-open door. The whites of his eyes were so blood-shot it must have been like peeping out through a red filter.
Evidently he wasn't sure of what he was seeing, for he waved me in, staggered back to the bed, fumbled for a bottle on the bedside table, took hold of it with both hands, and drank down what was left in it with one swallowless gulp. There was no label. It could have been bootleg gin or plain medicinal alcohol. He gasped frantically as the last drop went down his gullet.
He was a big man, the kind certain types of girls go for. Myself, I have never found those dark types with the pinstripe moustache much competition. But I don't compete in that big-muscled league, either.
Morgan wore only a pair of rumpled undershorts. The place, especially the bed, was a mess. From one of the bedposts hung a pair of lacy pink panties. There was a hole in the crotch.
Dave Morgan coughed loudly and spat into a tissue. This must have convinced him he could talk if he tried, because he tried.
"What can I do for you, mister? You a skiptracer or something?"
"No, nothing like that. Ivy MacMann sent me around. Said you'd give me a line on Lurene Feldkamp."
"Lurene? Oh, yeah. Shit, I guess I knew her about as well as any guy who ever laid her-better than some-but I don't talk until I know what's in it for me."
"This is a scientific investigation." We can't let money become a factor or it may obscure the truth of your story. What I need is your truthful, voluntary recollections of Lurene Feldkamp with no reservations. How about it?"
He eyed me warily. "Well, I reckon I can go along if it's for science. But talking is awfully thirsty work. Might it be that you can afford a bottle or two-just to oil my tonsils?"
I agreed and tendered him a ten-dollar bill. He disappeared for fifteen minutes and returned with four bottles of cloudy gin. I sat patiently while he drank the first one. As the last drop hit his belly he turned to me and said, "Where was I?"
"Lurene Feldkamp," I said.
"Right," said Dave Morgart.
"I figure you could say that Lurene Feldkamp was a self-made woman," said Dave. "Leastwise when I first met her that was what she was doing.
"I was driving through the fields just outside of town when I suddenly got a call of nature. Now, most guys in the country, they'll find some bushes or a gully and do it there. But I'm one who likes his comfort. So I looked around for a privy. I found one out back of an old farmhouse that looked deserted. I stuffed some kleenex in my pocket and ran down the path.
"I yanked open the privy door and that's when I first saw Lurene Feldkamp. She was sitting back of the seat with her legs spread out and one finger stuck right in her middle, playing with her cunt. She looked about as happy as a dame could be. She must have been about to come.
"Isn't it something, how you can sometimes see so much about somebody in one flash? The split minute I saw her I knew what she was doing. I also knew she was a mighty pretty girl, well-stacked, and ripe for a little loving. The privy was a tongue-and-groove board job. I remember looking up to see what it was made of, so I could say something about how she was built like a brick shit-house.
"She looked up at me, frightened. She must have been so turned on when she got into that privy that she didn't take time to hook the door shut.
"I said to her, 'Don't mind me, honey, just go on with what you were doing. But shove over and let me use the hole.' "Anyone who's truthful will tell you there's something sexy about taking a crap-and when you've got a pretty girl sitting next to you for inspiration it's even more like that. Lurene just sat there with her mouth open. Never said a mumbling word, just looked down the hole in front of me, taking my measure and feeling herself.
"When I finished answering Old Mother Nature's original call, I got another and different kind. I reached over for Lurene and pulled her onto my lap. I kissed her, and she suctioned back at me as if she'd like to suck me out of my clothes.
"While we were kissing I was feeling her about. It was pretty obvious that she wasn't wearing a brassiere, so I slipped her blouse over her head to see if what was under there looked as good out in the open.
"Somebody should come up with a better word than 'tits' for them. Hers were mighty pretty." Dave began to wax poetic. "Sort of white with orange and pink lights like the rest of her skin. And they stuck straight out, practically, except for tilting upwards at the nipples. 'Eating stuff' is what we call that around here. And eat them I did. I licked and I nibbled and I sucked. And she pulled at my hair and breathed hard, and said, 'More-more-more-more-more!' "I was rubbing her flat little belly in time to the sucking. Then she started to respond to me with little twitches and humps of her hips. I knew she was well on her way. So I slipped my hand slowly on down along over her mound-through the silky hairs-and into her cunt, where I played with her button until she begged me to take her.
"Being all stripped down below the waist already, I only had to bring my prick up out of the seat-hole and it was ready for her. And I mean really ready. I tell you it was so stiff that if you had hit it it would have twanged like a Jew's harp!
"I picked her up and set her with her legs straddling me, and tried to bring her down over my prick. That's when I found out she was a virgin. I was fit to be tied. But I wasn't ready to give up. No sir! She was crying for it by then and I was bound and determined she was going to get it-good. I turned her around with her back to me, made sure her skirt was clear of her little ass, and back-scuttled her.
"Once I got her hole in place over my jock, I pulled her down hard so that I broke through her maidenhead and went deep into her pussy. She screamed at the moment I broke through, but it soon turned into 'mm-mm-mm-m,' when she felt me plugging her. In fact, she planted her feet on the shit-house floor and heaved herself up and down to meet me. And every time we bumped together we both said, 'Uh!' "I was doing my other bit to help her sensations along by sliding the index finger of my right hand over her clit-button at the same time I was jamming my jock in. And, with the other hand I jiggled her boobs. And she loved it all the way. When we both came at the same time she laid her head back on my shoulder and collapsed back into my arms, and I could see she was grinning like the cat that ate the cream.
"'Let's do it again,' she said.
"'Just you be easy, honey,' I told her. 'I'll be with you in a little while.' "She skittered back on the seat a little bit so she could look me over. She touched my cock and said, 'Is that a big one for its kind?' "'Plenty big enough for your little pussy,' I said. 'There may be bigger, but you'll have to look around some for it.' "How do you make it hard?' "'Play with it, baby. Kiss it. Make love to it.' "She knelt on the hard boards and took my cock in her hands. 'You're right! It's getting harder! Oh, I love it, I want it!' She kissed it and licked it, and nibbled at the head. And she rubbed my balls and warmed them until I got so hard I throbbed. I figured I'd come any minute.
"'Don't lick it anymore unless you're ready to have it go off in your mouth,' I told her. 'It's just about ready to spurt.' "'I want it in me,' she said. 'Let's go somewhere where we can do it the right way.' "'We can go to my place,' I suggested. 'Nobody'll bother us there. But first, make me come. I can't hold back much more. Besides, if I go off now, I'll be all ready to go again by the time we reach my place. And it'll last longer then, too.' "She sat down in my lap with her back to me, like the first time, held her arms out in front of her to help her balance, and began to ride up and down on my cock-like she was riding on a saddle with a big horn on it. After a few deep thrusts I felt her come, giving my cock a mighty squeeze, and I let go with everything in me. I think we both yelled for joy that time.
"It took Lurene and me a little while to recuperate from that bout. But when we did, we piled into my old Mustang and headed for my place. Right here. We picked up some food and a bottle on the way, and the minute we landed here we began to build ourselves up for more loving. Lurene wasn't much of a drinker in those days. She was an eater. She put away most of the chow while I concentrated on the bottle.
"Before long, I passed out. I guess I heard her using the shower about the time my lights went out. It must have been she got to fretting while waiting for me to wake up, because she didn't. Wait for me to wake up, that is. I was dreaming about getting fucked when I started waking up and realized I was. Getting fucked.
"Someone was lying on my chest and belly, and sucking sweetly at my cock. I opened one eye and saw a practically brand new cunt staring back at me. I figured out it was Lurene in action. Well, why not? I thought. I began to give her as good a licking as I was getting.
"When she had me just about ready to shoot, I tried to switch places with her and climb aboard her. But she wouldn't let me. We struggled together until I realized she was trying to push me down on my back for a reason. Then I let her. She laid down on my chest and kissed me. She like to tore the tongue right out of my mouth. All the while, she wriggled her hot body against my chest, belly and cock.
"'Let me up, baby, and we'll fuck,' I yelled. But she kept pushing me back. 'Come on, now, honey,' I shouted, 'I'm all ready. Let me give it to you.' "Instead, she slid back, reared up, straddled me, and took my cock inside. She worked her pussy muscles and I could feel them clamp on my cock, let go, and then clamp again.
"'I'm going to come any second!' I shouted.
"She raised up and I could feel about three-quarters of my cock come out of the warm hole. Then she tightened up inside and drove downward ... up, down-about three times-and I shot the biggest load of my life.
"Now don't you go telling it around town here that a brand-new-at-the-game broad made an old stud like me come with only a few strokes. Like a kid. It isn't good for my reputation. They'd all be laughing at me. I guess it was the position. I've never since let a dame get on top of me. Or maybe the liquor was bad.
I've never since passed out after screwing a broad. But that night I went out like a turned-off light. And it was five P.M. next day when I came to.
"Man, I was beat. I didn't want to move off this bed. I didn't know what had waked me up until my head quit throbbing and I began to hear things happening in my kitchen: dishes clacking together. And the smell of soup in the air.
"Lurene soon showed up with a couple of bowls of chickennoodle soup and a big pile of crackers. The soup was from a can, of course. That's all there ever is around this place to eat. I mean canned food. I knew I ought to eat something, so I worked my way slowly through a bowl of soup and a couple of crackers. Lurene wolfed down the rest.
"She looked around for something to do with herself while I finished my soup, finally came back with a basin of warm water, washcloth, soap, towel, and cleaned me up in a sort of sponge bath. I was occupied with my soup, but the feel of soapsuds and the wet, warm cloth on my cock made it stir and lift up a little.
"Lurene was delighted to see it move. She wiped it off, kissed it, and called it pet names. It stood up taller. She fished noodles out of my bowl and wound them around it. When she ran out of noodles to decorate it with, she took to nibbling the noodles off of it.
"I became as randy as a stud stallion watching her and feeling what she was doing. Hell, you would too, if a beautiful, warm, young dame with no clothes on took to sucking noodles off your cock. I started to raise myself up from the bed, but she pushed me back down and made me lie still by clutching my balls between her fingernails while she sucked.
"Then she let up and began moving her ass up over my cock, her legs astride me. It looked to me like I was going to get laid like before. Well, I wasn't about to let a broad get on top of me again. It isn't manly. She had to let go of my balls, and when she did I gave a mighty heave and broke away from her. Then I rolled on top of her.
"When I was astride, I dropped between her legs and shoved my dick deep into her cunt. I let her have five or six strokes of the full length with all the power I could put behind them. She cried out, 'A-a-a-a-agh!' and came. I could feel the bed move as she shook with the spasms that almost strangled my cock. I stopped, very still, with only the tip remaining in her pussy.
"When her spasms quit, she pushed her hips up at me, trying to take me in again. I let her have it in-out, in-out until she came again. But I didn't come with her. There wasn't much left to give her, after all the loving we'd been up to for two days, so I could hold back without having to fight my own come.
"She came five or six more times. By then, she was begging me to spend and get it over with. I was about at the end of my strength, anyway, so I rammed down so hard she screamed. It didn't seem to help me come. So I picked her legs up and held them so that the bottom of her cunt contacted the back of my shaft, the part that feels like it has a canal running along under the skin. That made my cock more sensitive to the friction and also made it go deeper. I jammed it in and out with my entire weight behind it until I felt everything in my balls shoot out with all my strength behind it.
"We spent several days shacked up here, just making love. It was as great as the best screwing I ever had. Except that she seemed to be forever trying to get on top of me. Then I realized it was always she who started things. She would never wait until I asked her, 'How about it?' but was forever after me to do it with her. I decided I was being turned into her whore! Well, maybe she wasn't paying me, but she was using me. Like I always use dames. And I didn't like it. Then, one day I couldn't get it up. No matter what she tried, I couldn't get a hard-on. And I knew I had to get rid of her before it cost me my manhood.
"Know why they call me a stud? It's because I break in girls for the local whorehouses. Got a couple working for me, too. But at that time I wasn't getting much time for my work-what with Lurene taking so much out of me-so I decided it was time to drop her and get back on the job. Having thought that far, I got a really bright idea about how to end everything with a profit.
"'Look, Lurene,' I said to her, 'you need a lot more fucking than I can give you. Besides, I can't afford to keep you around here. You've got no place to go if you leave here and no trade to work at. But I can fix that. And make you rich. You're a really good natural fucker. You ought to be working in a real classy whorehouse, letting that smart little pussy of yours make you a fortune. Hell, it'll be more fun than work, and you'll get really big money for it. I'll bet you make over a hundred bucks a week in tips alone.' "She must have been hot as hell, anyhow, and she jumped at the chance to get into Ivy MacMann's place. I drove her there that night, set it up with Ivy, collected my usual commission, and said good-bye to Lurene forever. And that's all I personally know about Lurene Feldkamp."
I thanked Dave Morgan for his help and left him lying on his bed. Once outside, I stood there breathing deeply to get the alcohol fumes out of my head. Then I drove back to Ivy MacMann's place.
She let me use her office to type up my notes, then read them through for accuracy. She laughed long and loud when she came to the place where Dave Morgan begged me not to let anyone know that Lurene had forced him into the female-superior position.
Said Ivy, "That's the trouble we had with her when she first came to the place. Customer after customer complained. They said she was a wonderful lay but she always wanted to get on top. I had to talk to her seriously about it. She gave up the habit when I explained to her that a man liked to feel he was the boss when he paid for a lay."
"I think I understand what was in her mind," I told Ivy. "She had a compulsion to dominate with her sex organs. I'll bet she saw sex as a way to make money rather than love, that she is just like most of the others I've studied. They copulate to get it out of their system so they can concentrate on making a fortune."
Ivy MacMann and I spent the rest of the day together, talking, and at ten P.M., when business began to pick up, I drove away for Las Vegas, to look up the guitar player who had taken Lurene Feldkamp away to become Brandy Buskirke.
I found Link Helbrun playing with a combo in the cocktail lounge of the hotel at which I was staying. This was not exactly chance. My plan was to lure him up to my room after he finished his night's work and to pump him for details of Brandy Buskirke's departure from the whorehouse and her further adventures on the road to fame and fortune.
After I had dinner in the hotel, I spent the longest part of the evening feeding quarters to slot machines. It's a way I have of clearing the mind and making it more receptive to the nuances of conversation. I won four jackpots. Early in the morning I strolled into the cocktail lounge, took a table near the musicians, and ordered a Tuborg. I nursed my beer until the musicians took a break.
Link Helbrun had been pointed out to me by the waiter. He didn't leave the stand at the break but stayed there hunched over his guitar, playing something for his own ears. He had turned the volume way down, but I could just hear the minor chords he was picking and I recognized them as an old Greek folk song. I've heard it in the Aegean Islands, played on a stringed instrument with a name I can't recall, on a special night when the stars were very bright....
I must have fallen under the music's spell, for I began to nod my head and snap my fingers in time, with my hands held high, my eyes closed. I was remembering certain wonderful things.
He noticed me and when he reached the end of his song he set the guitar down and came over to my table. "You Greek?" he asked me.
I shook my head. "No, but I've been there. Loved it. Loved the men. Loved the women."
He nodded. "I've been there, too. Crete. My father came from there. Someday I'm going back. Meanwhile I play the old songs, so's I'll remember. I got to get me one of those things they play there. My old man had one, but I never can remember what they call it."
"You do all right on the guitar. I thought it was one of those other things for a while. Say, you're Link Helbrun, aren't you?
"That's me."
"I'm Hank Van Dieman. A friend in Elko told me to look you up."
"Nice to meet you. You a musician?"
"No, but I need your help."
"How?"
"Well, I'm doing a study on Brandy Buskirke and I understand you gave her her start."
"You might say that. Although all she needed was a place to show what she could do. When they heard her, she had to make it."
"Mind talking about it?"
"Not at all. But I've got to get back on the stand. Can we get together after closing? I never sleep."
"Surely." I gave him my room number.
"Great. I'll be up after the next set. There's another group takes over from us. I'll meet you at your pad."
I filled in the time until Helbrun's arrival by dozing on the couch. When he showed up he was all wound up and ready to talk. "Where do you want me to start?" he asked.
"You might begin with how you got Lurene Feldkamp out of the whorehouse and made a singer out of her."
"Not quite the way it was," said Link. "First, I didn't know she was a whore. I thought she was just one of those 'groupies' who follow bands around and make plays for the musicians.
"What got me was she only showed up on Wednesday nights and never made a pass at any of us. That's why I started to talk to her between dance sets.
"She told me she wanted to be a singer and asked if she could do a number with the boys. I told her it was up to Al Tenor, and the sax man, but I'd talk to him if she could convince me she was any good. I took my guitar and her behind the bandstand and tried her out on "Stardust." She sang it straight and clean, with a good voice but very little style.
"I explained to her about how you have to have style, sometimes it's even more important than voice. I played the number through for her and showed her how to phmse it, where to breathe, how to slur her notes a little-like a musical instrument-but make the lyrics come out clean and with feeling. She caught on fast and went through it again perfectly. I was sold on her right away and took her to Al. He listened and decided to give her a spot tryout.
"We put her on as a solo right after the next set of dances. I backed her up with my guitar during her song and Al liked it so much that he came on at the end and asked her to do it one more time. Of course, he stayed on stage with her and worked in a trumpet solo. But that's Al. She got a big hand. We asked her to stick around and cut up a few touches after the gig-I guess each of us was set to make time with her if possible-but she said she had to get back home and would see us all next Wednesday.
"She showed up the following Wednesday with a new number. Had sheet music, an arrangement no less. We put her on early and she made everyone in the house break at least one arm clapping. This time she stuck around with us after the gig, and we had a few brews together. The whole combo. Nobody would give another guy a chance to be alone with her. When she said she had to leave, we were all busted up about it. I asked her why she only came around on Wednesdays. 'I work in a whorehouse. Ivy MacMann's,' she told us. 'We're busy every day but Wednesday.' She walked away, leaving us all standing there with our jaws hanging.
"During the week that followed, we talked about her a lot. We were all hot for her, sure, but there was something else in our minds.
"Johnny Mello said it first. 'This dame can turn our combo into a real attraction. She's got the looks to bring in customers and the voice to make us all sound good. Besides, with a build like that, she could make a big impression on booking agents. We ought to try to con her into joining up with us.' "Johnny never talked much otherwise, so we knew he had been giving this idea a lot of thought. We also knew it was a great idea and would get us into the big time. But the decision was Al Tenor's, so I braced him with 'What do you think, Al? After all, a lot of that applause was for your horn?' "Al eyed me and said, 'You're fucking-A right. But the broad is good. It might be nice to have some steady stuff around. Why don't you see what you can work out with her?' "So, next night I was at the whorehouse. Me. I hadn't been in a place like that for years. Since I was a kid. I haven't ever had to pay for it since I got into the music racket.
"I felt real funny about asking for Lurene. It's a good thing we knew her name. And I had to wait almost an hour before the maid showed me up to her room. She was real freaked out with joy when she saw me.
"'Hey there, Link,' she laughed, 'why didn't you tell me the other night that you had hot pants? I could have fixed you up for free.' "'This is a business call,' I told her, 'my business. The guys sent me over to talk to you about joining up with us.' "'You mean I don't appeal to you sexually?' she teased, pulling me very close to her, so I'd be sure there was nothing under that wrapper she wore. Which I had already figured out on account of the damn thing was practically transparent and at least three sizes too small.
"'Cut that out, Lurene. Sure, I go for you. But right now I'm here to ask you whether you'd like to sign on as a singer and tour with us. The guys all want you.' "'Do you want me, too?' "'Yeah, you'd be great for the combo. We could really make the big towns and the big money with you along.' "'Big money?' "'Well, I don't know what you're making here, but I'll bet you do as well or better with us ... for longer ... and with a lot less wear and tear on your ass. You'll see a lot of the country, meet a lot of guys. Maybe we'll get a shot at television. Or the movies.' "She held out a hand to me. 'Okay. Let's shake on it. If there's a chance for a shot at TV or the movies I'll go along. But, look, there ain't no wear and tear on my ass yet. See?' "She flipped out of her wrapper and posed so I could inspect her butt. Hell, she couldn't have used better bait. I'm Greek from way back, like I told you. I cupped her peach-shaped ass in both hands and squeezed nice and easy.
"'Hey,' she said, 'you do that very well. Sit down on the bed. But don't let go.' "She sat back in my lap and then raised her ass up just enough so that she could reach under, unzip me, and get my prick out into the open. It was up like a symphony conductor's baton, ready for the first movement. I guided her down on it and she took it into her quim like into a silk sheath. Only, she gripped it all the way down and squeezed it like she was having an orgasm, almost. But I could tell it was a voluntary contraction of inner muscles.
"'Hey, don't, I said, 'that'll bring it right up out of my balls.' "'Hang on,' she said, and began to pump up and down on my rod. She was, like, doing a kazatski or something. Dancing me to a come!
"It didn't take long. How could it? With her hot cunt teasing the stuff up out of my balls in the most wonderful way possible, and me urging her along by hanging on to both tits and squeezing hell out of the nipples?
"We both went off at the same moment and she flopped back on the bed with me. 'I guess that seals the partnership,' she said.
"There was other business to attend to before Lurene could leave Ivy MacMann's. And that became my department. I guess that was because Lurene and I got along so well. I had to talk Ivy into letting Lurene go, which wasn't easy. I had to promise to pay back all the bread she'd invested in Lurene and enough to make up for what she'd lose during the month it'd take to find a replacement. There were times when we went hungry to send Ivy her check. And times we couldn't send it, too. I guess there's still a big balance due on the account. That is, if Ivy hasn't sweated it out of Lurene by now.
"Then there were arrangements to rewrite-to include solos for Lurene-and gowns to buy, and photos, and demo records. Lurene stayed on the job long enough so we could get the money together for this stuff. But the day we changed her name to Brandy Buskirke, she quit the whorehouse cold. Said it didn't fit into her new life. She wouldn't sleep with anyone but me from then on.
"We got booked out on a tour of small towns. But things didn't go the way we had dreamed. For two years we played small college towns and the backwoods. And fame and fortune was always just one town away. At least, that's what our agent told us.
"By the end of the second year we were not so sure we'd ever make it. The group was down to three-Johnny Mello on bass, me on the guitar, and Brandy singing and faking rhythm on a tambourine. We were traveling in a Chevy station wagon and sharing the same motel room to save a buck. Johnny would sleep outside in the station wagon to give Brandy and me privacy, but he'd share the john and we'd all eat together. Dinner being whatever we could find in the local supermarket that could be cooked on an upside-down electric iron.
"One night we pulled into a little burg real late. I think it was Alice, Texas. No, not Dallas. We never even passed through those big towns in those days. Well, we checked into a particularly crummy motel and Johnny went to sleep in the wagon immediately.
"Brandy and I got into an argument about something or other-we did that a lot in those days-and made up with a heavy screwing bout. She was horny as hell. It lasted until dawn's early light, and by then I was begging her to cut it out and get some sleep. Those long jumps and not eating or sleeping regularly were beginning to tell on my stamina.
"About that time, Johnny Mello woke up-with a piss hard-on. He laid out there in the station wagon with it for as long as he could. Then, figuring we were asleep, he sneaked into the room to use the john. This guy Mello is the kind who never closes the door. When Brandy saw him standing there with that enormous hard-on, waiting for the stream to start, she jumped out of bed yelling, 'Johnny, you've just got to take care of me! This crummy git-fiddler hasn't got a fuck left in him!' "Johnny was frightened as hell, and just got the door slammed shut in time for Brandy to fall against it with a loud crash. She beat on the door and shouted, 'Come out of there, you fucker, I need you!' "Johnny yelled back through the door, 'Link! Take her away and shut her up! She's got me so scared I got a stricture. I can't pee!' "I dashed over and grabbed Brandy, pinning her arms and clamping a hand over her mouth so's she couldn't hammer or yammer. I yelled, 'Go ahead, Johnny!' "There was no sound for several minutes, then he practically sobbed, 'I can't, I can't!' "'Run the water in the sink!' I shouted.
"I heard one tap come on and run for about a minute. Then the second tap tinkled along with it. After another two minutes or so, I heard the shower running, too. Then came the sound of another stream hitting porcelain. Followed by a long, low sigh from Johnny.
"Brandy then waited tamely in my arms for Johnny to come out. At last he peeped through the door and whispered, 'Is it safe to pass through now, Link?' "She broke loose from me and pushed right through the bathroom door, cursing and screaming, 'You're not going anywhere until I get taken care of!' She almost bowled Johnny over as she slammed into him, grabbing his long, limp cock.
"He looked at me sadly. 'What do you say, Link? After all-' "I nodded and sighed, 'Sock it to her, Johnny. I can't take care of the little whore anymore. She needs both of us.' "He brightened visibly, all over, and smiled a big smile. 'Well, if you have no objections, I've always wanted to take a shot at her.' His expression went rueful. 'That is, if I can get it up again.' "Brandy said, 'You leave that to me.' She dropped to her knees and kissed his dangling cock. But Johnny stopped her. 'It doesn't work that way with me, baby. Just do like I tell you.' "He led her over to the bed and told her to sit on the edge. Then he knelt before her and licked her pussy. 'Try to hold still,' he told her.
"'That's nice, that's real nice,' said Brandy as Johnny probed deeper with his tongue. Johnny was watching the expression on her face while he licked. It went through all the changes to ecstasy while he worked her up.
"All at once, Brandy threw her arms around Johnny's head and held him tight while she came. You're the greatest, Johnny,' she told him, 'but what about you? Let's try to get your pecker up again.' "'It's no problem,' said Johnny. 'This is what turns me on. Look.' And he showed her a hard-on that embarrassed me. I never before knew he was hung like that. "'Shall I go out to the wagon?' I asked them, bitterly. 'Maybe you two would like to be alone?' "'Uh-uh,' Johnny said. 'I don't mind an audience if Brandy don't. How's about playing some soft, fast music while we fuck?' "Brandy just threw me a dirty look and said, 'You do what you want to. For me, you're not here now, anyhow.' I threw the extra blanket across the cold plastic easy chair-so-called-and stretched myself across it as comfortably as my aching body would let me. Then I started to play some of that old Greek music-like on a Bouzouki, I just remembered what they call it-the kind that starts out slow and easy, and ends up like a wild ride to heaven.
"Johnny and Brandy rolled together on the bed and locked tongues. His hands were all over her at once, feeling everything-touching lightly, teasing her up to excitement level.
"For her part, Brandy was squeezing that big prick of Johnny's, like she was milking it. I didn't think it could get harder and longer. But it did. Brandy got worked up to final action before Johnny. She trapped the hand that was teasing her clit-caught it between hers and held it tightly against her box while she came. When the spasms which had wracked her body at last were through, she said, 'Now, goddamnit, fuck me and let's get some sleep.' "Johnny looked over my way and winked. I figured it was my cue to increase tempo for the next movement. I waited, strumming steadily, while Johnny turned Brandy over on her belly. He raised up her ass and stuck a pillow under her stomach to build a firm base. He spread her legs so that her pussy stuck out like a ... like a sore pussy, I guess, after all the pronging I had been giving it during the night. Rising on his knees behind her, he stuck the head of his cock into her cunt.
"She hissed, sort of. It was an intake of breath that said more than words. Like, it hurt, but it hurt good, and she was going to take it all no matter how it hurt.
"Johnny put his fist around his cock, next to his belly, and pushed in until she was right up against his fist. She moaned and shook as it penetrated. He rocked back and forth, in and out, penetrating as far as the fist each time.
"Brandy got to moving with him, shoving her ass up to take his cock deep within her-both of them speeding up their action as I increased the tempo of the music.
"This must have gone on for about fifteen minutes when Johnny decided he was ready to come. He moved back, stopped, took his fist away and plunged the whole cock in-giving her the extra four or five inches his palm had withheld until then. She fainted. He shot his load and fell on her back. Out like a light!
"I straightened them out on the bed, pushed them over to one side, and turned in on the other. I had decided it was time to share everything with Johnny. There was enough of Brandy for two. After all she had been a professional whore. And, besides, I wasn't going to be forced to sleep outside in the station wagon. And that's the way it went for the next few weeks. Until the night we got our big break.
"Our agent's phone call reached us in Athol. Athol, that's in Massachusetts. No, I don't lisp. He told us to hurry on down to New York. The City. He had got us booked into the newest 'in' spot in the Village. Yeah. Greenwich Village. We burned out the engine on the station wagon getting there.
"The manager of the Fruit of the Womb, Manny Frank, was mighty frank with us. 'I don't think you're our type of act. Your stuff is too "straight," there's no gimmick. But I got this open date because The Electric Clit got busted for holding marijuana, and I owe your agent a favor. So, for two weeks, if you're any good at all, you'll eat regular. Which I notice you people haven't been doing too often.' "This didn't give us too much confidence about the date. By the time we were to open the first show, all three of us were so jittery that we made several false starts on the first number. The crowd wasn't the kind that boos. They just wouldn't applaud. And they ate and drank and talked out loud right through our act. They were so cold to us, I was shivering when we went offstage. And no one called us back for encores. Hell, even in Athol, Massachusetts, they called us back for two encores per show.
"We held a meeting in our motel room right after that. I told Brandy and Johnny that one of us had better come up with a gimmick fast or I didn't think Manny Frank would let us finish out the two weeks-no matter what our agent had on him. Besides, I said, this was about the end of the line for us. If we flunked out on this job there wouldn't be much reason to go on working as an act. So, it might be back to the whorehouse for Brandy-Lurene, and hunting for band jobs for Johnny and me. I told them I hadn't an idea in the world. As far as I was concerned I was going to play out the date, or play out as many days as Manny'd give us, and then hit the local hiring hall for some kind of band gig. Even one of those groups that specializes in bar mitzvahs and weddings. They might have a spot for a good guitar man. Especially if he could do those old-fashioned ragtime banjo solos. Especially if he had his own banjo.
"I got the old banjo out of the case and tuned it up. With the steel picks on my fingers, I ran up and down the scales; then segued into an old tune that used to be big in the days of vaudeville and early talking movies, "Tiptoe Through the Tulips." I remember Dick Powell singing it in a movie. To Marion Davies. That is, I think I remember them doing the number. It's a long time ago.
"Brandy let out a squeal. 'You dumb son of a bitch! There's your gimmick!' "'What-what-what?' I sputtered.
"'Let me show you,' said Brandy. And she grabbed a comb and a handful of vaseline and began doing things to mine and Johnny's hair and moutaches.
"When we went on for the second show, we looked like a trio out of the thirties. Johnny's hair and mine was parted in the middle and slicked down like a couple of 'Shieks'. Our moustaches were trimmed to pencil lines. We wore vintage eyeglass frames with no lenses, and our seediest suits. Brandy's skirt was short and her stockings rolled below the knees. She wore heavy makeup, with Cupid's-bow lips. A frizzy wig and lots of long strings of beads completed her disguise. The sound engineer had found us an old-fashioned round microphone with special call letters that spelled out a four-letter word. It set the act off just fine.
"What we did, as you've probably guessed by now, was recreate the sound that was popular in the thirties, sort of ricky-ticky, and throw in just enough solemn spoof of the old days to make the act very camp. Brandy even did her singing with one hand cupped behind an ear, like an early radio crooner doing 'remotes' from local hotels or dance halls. Later on I bought sequined megaphones for all of us, so we could 'wah-wah' along behind her choruses. I had to have them made up special. But by then we didn't count the cost. After the show in which we broke in our new sound, we never had to worry again. As long as there was an act.
"Of course it couldn't go on forever.
"We were getting top bookings and top money. We did Ed Sullivan's show, Steve Allen's, John Gary's, Jackie Gleason's-he's a good musician-Johnny Carson's, Woody Woodbury's, and all the others. The Kingston Trio and several others wouldn't be on the same bill with us. We did records and albums. Then we starred in TV specials built around us! With plenty of money, we all three started having private lives again. No more living in one room and sharing everything.
"Suddenly I realized that Brandy was doing guest shots without us. I told myself and Johnny that she had to jam by herself every so often, just like the two of us-me and Mello-still cut out together for jam sessions with whatever musicians were in town. As a matter-of-fact, I had done a few TV shots by myself-that is, without Brandy but with Johnny backing me up on the bass. I could solo, but there wasn't much demand for Johnny by himself. The bass fiddle is really not a solo instrument. But Brandy's solo shots were the beginning of the end for our act.
"I know now it was her own idea. And she did it smoothly. You know how those guest shots give a singer a chance to duet with the host? Well, Brandy used them as excuses for changing her style. She sang more and more 'straight.' And for that she didn't need us. On her guest appearances she found out who was the best management outfit in the business, and she met and got laid by their top agent. When she had everything -lined up, she called us in and told us she was giving us the air. I tried to be philosophical about the whole deal-which I realized had been a fluke from the start. It was Brandy's drive that got us to where we were. And my good luck to have been along for the ride and other fringe benefits. We had never had a written contract, so it was just a thing of playing out engagements, arranging for royalty splits, then shaking hands good-bye.
"I've always had a warm spot in my heart for Brandy. I still phone her whenever I'm in Hollywood and we get together to cut up old touches. I don't blame her for the fact that I had to go back to the bandstand to make my bread.
"The guy I'm sorry for, though, is Johnny. I've lost track of him completely. For a time we tried to hold the act together, but we just couldn't find us another Brandy. And we just didn't have what it takes to be stars by ourselves. It takes a special sort of drive that only Brandy had."
Link Helbrun broke into a grin. "Too bad they don't have more lady agents. Maybe Johnny or I'd have been able to lay our way into the movies like Brandy did. Yeah, she got into one of those Roaring Twenties type movies. Screwed the right producer. She was the 'good' girl, singing in a speakeasy for a living but doing everything necessary to protect her cherry from the hero until the last fade-out. Had some great numbers to sing. And with her figure she scored high with the critics and the public. So now she's the Eternal Innocent of the movies-a regular Doris Day. What a jump from the whorehouse!"
"Very interesting," I said, "but what's she really like these days? Maybe she has given up the old, wild life for good."
Link guffawed long and loudly. "That I dearly doubt. But I'll tell you what I'll do for you, I'm due for some time off and, if you're heading into Hollywood from here, I'll go along and introduce you to her. Then we'll really find out what happened. What do you say?"
What could I say? A more perfect opportunity to check firsthand into the sex life of a subject I could not imagine. In the interests of science I could not turn Helbrun's kind offer down. I made arrangements to meet him that evening, so we could ride across the desert in the relatively cool night air. Then we both turned in to get some much needed sleep.
The trip across the desert was uneventful but enervating. So, when we pulled into the Hollywood-Nixon about ten P.M., I assumed we'd eat, bed down, and then contact Brandy in the morning. But that was not Link Helbrun's way.
No sooner did we get into our room-I had made a deal with him to share expenses-than he was on the phone, shouting something like, "Hey, there, Brandy chick, how're they hanging? It's me, Link. I'm in town!" He listened a moment. "Sure, baby, I still love you. Yeah, there's plenty of lead in the old pencil. How are things with you?"
He held the phone away from his ear so I could hear the other side of the conversation: "Link, you old son of a bitch! You get on over here to my place. I won't take no for an answer. We've got a lot of time, drinking, and screwing to catch up on!"
"But, baby," said Link, "it's late and I'm with a friend." He laughed with glee. "Nope, it ain't a dame. It's a friend of mine, a sort of professor.
"Yeah. Well, I guess we can come over now. I brought him into town to meet you personally, anyhow. See you soon."
Brandy met us at the door with a tray of drinks. Doubles. I tried one and gasped. Her idea of a martini was a gin cocktail with a tiny, vermouth-tipped olive. I braced myself for the second sip. After all, I told myself, it's for Science. After the second sip, it seemed quite natural to be drinking gin cocktails. That is, after one persuaded one's host to leave out those vermouth-tainted olives.
I must say right here that Brandy Buskirke is a real beauty. Although Dave Morgan had told me there was a resemblance in her structure to a brick shit-house, I had always thought from seeing her in the movies that she was fairly petite. My personal inspection of the subject informed me she was fully as tall as I, and built to the same grand scale as her height. Her breast proportions, for example, were perfect for her size, but on Marilyn Monroe-if you remember her-they'd be too big.
She read my eyes and smiled. "Right, professor. Forty-four by the last tape."
"But," I said. "In your last picture you appeared to be no bigger anywhere than my fourteen-year-old niece."
"Uhhuh. But that was next to Clint Royale. Anyone would look positively petite next to that six-foot-seven fag. And innocent, too. That's how I manage to look so innocent. They cast me opposite fairies who can't turn me on." She leaned very close to me and stared at me with her fiery ... no, brilliant ... no, intense ... no, sexy ... eyes and said, "Don't you think I'm sexy, professor?"
"Yes ma'am," I replied, licking my lips-which were inordinately dry for some reason. "But, please don't call me professor. It's not true. Oh, I am an investigator-a sexologist, like Kinsey-and that's why Link has brought me to you. You see, he's been telling me about you and your early days. It's all for a very scientific reason. I'll be using it in a theses. Not for general distribution. I hope you don't mind ... "
"Mind? Mind! This could be exactly the break I'm looking for! I haven't had a picture assignment for months. Good girls are out! At least at my salary. It's the whores that get the good parts these days. I mean the meaty ones, where a girl can sink her teeth into a guy. Like, I can strip down with the best of these broads. And I'm a better lay. But when they need a broad to play a scarlet sister, nobody ever thinks of me. It's all on account of the parts I've been playing.
"I tried everything I could think of to convince these producers I'm a whore at heart. I even went back and laid Horace Strawberry, the producer, the guy who gave me my original break in movies. But he worships me and doesn't want to share me with the dirty-minded world. So help me, that's what the creep says! And he's got all the newspaper guys in his pocket. They won't print a story that would tarnish my image.
"Please, professor, I want you to write me into a real book. Make it as strong as you like. Maybe it'll blast me out of this goody-goody image and get me to working again.
"There's this part in Polly Adler Revisited that would be just right for me. This girl's a whore, but she likes the work. Why, in one scene she takes on three guys in a regular orgy that would be just right up my alley."
She threw her arms around me in a tight embrace. "You've got to do it for me professor. I know I can handle the sex scenes. And I strip down as well as I ever did. Far better than most dames."
With these words she released me and stood up. "Don't think I can't," she said, and dropped her robe to the floor.
A vision of true beauty was revealed to me. I have never seen a body that evoked such voluptuous thoughts in me. She undulated and turned so that I had a complete view of everything there was to be viewed. I remembered such phmses from my undergrad days as "she was a vision of delight," or that bit about the beauty of the "riven fig," or the vulgar "sock it to me."
She dropped back on a divan, fully naked. My eyes blurred. I may have blacked out for a moment. Next thing I knew she was saying, "You'll do it for me, won't you, professor?"
All I could say was, "Certainly, Miss Brandy, I'll give it all I've got. Rest assured that my
CHAPTER on Brandy Buskirke will convince the world that you can play tramp parts." I got up and prepared to leave. "I'll get right on it. I'll return to the hotel immediately and prepare my final notes. You'll hear from me as soon as the book goes to press."
Brandy didn't move from the couch, nor did she cover up or offer to see me to the door. She gazed at me inscrutably.
I turned to Link. He was looking at Brandy. "Are you coming back with me Link? There are a few things I'd like to get straightened out with you?"
Link didn't look at me, merely said, "Not now, professor. There're a few things Brandy and I want to get straightened out first. I'll call you in the morning." They smiled at each other, leaving me out completely.
As I turned to go, Link threw a final suggestion at me. "Why don't you call the valet when you get back to the hotel. You can get one-day cleaning service on those trousers."
Which is exactly what I had in mind. He hadn't needed to tell me that at all. I am not a child.
RESOLVING THE PLIGHT OF THE SHY SEXOLOGIST
"Hendry van Dieman, you are a shit head!" The voice of Professor Falstaff Q. Merkin roared through the corridors of Old Hymen Hall and, I feared, across the campus of Marytal State U. I blushed and flinched, certain that every student on campus knew I was on the carpet in "Smirkin' Merkin's" office. My only consolation was that they'd know I was getting nothing worse than a tongue lashing. No one-but no one-could roar that loudly and long and have the breath to do any other kind of mayhem simultaneously. "You have turned in brilliant work. There is no doubt in my mind that you can see the pertinent facts and put them down on paper. But, did you do what I asked you to?"
"What do you mean, Professor? I've got everything down in four-letter words as you told me to. It wasn't easy." And I showed him my original draft with the technical words typed in and then carefully altered: "penis" to "prick" or "cock" or "dong;"
"vagina" to "cunt" or "pussy" or "quim;"
"intercourse" or "cohabitation" or even "making love" changed to "fucking;" and many other alterations to comply with Dr. Merkin's instructions to delete medical terms and use Anglo-Saxon words in order to become totally involved with my subject.
"Well, well, Mr. Smartass. So you've learned to fart through a keyhole, so to speak. But is it just a cute trick or do you really know what you're about? I've gone all through your reports and know how some amazingly ardent fucking came about, but none of this stuff tells me if you scored. How about it, boy, have you still got your cherry?"
What in hell else was there for me to do but blush again? It was all in the reports. I still had my maidenhead. And suddenly I could see that practically every woman I'd had anything to do with in the course of my research had offered to deflower me at least once during our sociable conversations.
Back in Toledo, Fanny Milton, that whorehouse madam deluxe, had wined and dined me, and had given me anything I'd asked for including free run of her place and her girls. Why hadn't I asked her for that? I probably could have had the not-too-old girl just for another sad story about my life as an orphan.
Big Eva had been pretty busy most of the time, but surely she'd have worked me in somewhere, had I asked her to. And I had walked out on Giulia Emily Lathrop Sterling von Eltz Sedgewick Mertz Callahan just as she was beginning to zero in on my virgin ass. But that was to protect my material, not my cherry.
There was also Wanda, quondam secretary to Barton Glendahl, who would probably have done more for me than just tell me about their love life. And there was Debby, who gave me the story of Farley D. Leader and their screwy times together as well as his later love adventures in Mexico. I could clearly see at this late date how I could have led the conversation around to fucking-her and me-and put it to her straight out.
Dr. Merkin went on, shouting aloud my various faults. But I was far away in memory and just as angry with myself over lost opportunities. Why, even Harry Socks had propositioned me. I distinctly remembered him calling me a "poor schnook," and suggesting I move in with him, "an old fag who could make you happy."
There was also Brandy Buskirke, built like a tongue-and-groove shithouse, as Dave Morgan had said and as I had seen for myself, the woman who had made me come in my pants the night Link Helbrun took me to visit her in Hollywood. Without a doubt, she would have taken my cherry in any of a hundred different ways. But Brandy would have taken my masculinity along with it. She was the one who liked to work on top. For a second I could feel the Queen Bee covering me and then letting me die.
Nevertheless, it was the memory of Brandy that made me recall the one really fine woman I'd met during my travels.
Remember how I came to meet Brandy? Fanny Milton gave me an introduction to Ivy MacMann, the madam at Elko, who put me onto Lurene Feldkamp, the girl who later became Brandy Buskirke. I am afraid I glossed over Ivy because I was hot on the trail of Brandy at the time. I had even given myself the clue at that time: "The madam in Elko was named Ivy MacMann. She was that strange and beautiful mixture of Mexican-Irish that is so very attractive to the men of the Southwest." I never said anything as rhapsodic about the other women in these case histories. Oh, maybe Giulia Emily Lathrop Etcetera-but that was only a temporary infatuation.
Recalling Ivy made me feel good all over. I recollected the way she had invited me to dinner in her private rooms and plied me with food, drink and good cigars. I remembered that she had lit up a panatela, too, and we'd talked all night there before the crackling fire. I remembered that her skin was lighter than olive, darker than white, rosier than not. Her eyes were black, jet black; her teeth white and uneven enough so that you knew they were her own; her hair was black and lustrous like her big eyes (into which you could fall completely), and there was a lot of it, piled high. I'd bet it came way down her back when it was unpinned. And her lips were red, so red they made her teeth look even whiter than white, and full-what they call bee-stung-and I wanted at that moment to be kissing them. It was beginning to dawn upon me that I was in love with Ivy MacMann, wanted to be with her for always.
I could remember things I would have sworn I hadn't even noticed. Her neck was long, but not too long, and there were interesting hollows at the base, places to kiss, warm places to lick. Her breasts-I can't call them "tits," even for Dr. Merkin-were like not-too-small, not-too-big melons, and I was sure they had firm conical nipples and large brown areolas that made perfect targets for searching lips.
And her figure-how could I ever have forgotten that? She was about my height and not too bulky. Last time I'd seen her she had been wearing a black negligee. We'd spent the whole day and evening talking about Brandy Buskirke, and, at ten P.M., when business was beginning to pick up, I had driven off to Las Vegas. What if I had stayed? I groaned to remember that she had changed into that negligee just a while before I'd left. What if I had just blown in her shell-like pink ear and asked her a little question? Could I have scored? Is that what she had wanted me to do?
I wanted to run all the way back to Elko; to go back to my Ivy and kiss those bee-stung lips, then nibble on the lower one for a while. I would lick that lower lip, and the hollows of her neck, and, sometime later, talk her out of that black negligee, so I could kiss her armpits and her breasts for a long time. Sometime later, I'd switch my attention to her belly and, either at the same time or before or after, tickle her twat until I was sure that she had lost all control and there'd be no question of her quitting, no matter what I looked like stripped down to the buff.
"That's when I'd toss my clothes aside and stand revealed as just an average man-with a harder-than-average hard-on on an average-size cock. By then it shouldn't make much difference to her. She'd want me anyway. She'd probably throw herself at my feet and lick everything in sight, I hoped. And I hoped I wouldn't flunk out right there and then. No! I swore I'd concentrate very intensely on not coming.
Meanwhile, I'd kiss her some more, and stroke her belly until she trembled with desire. Then I'd throw her on the bed and part her pussy with tender fingers, and find her clit with my tongue, and send her up to heaven by using all the technique I've been told about. Maybe a couple of hours later, if we could both hold out that long, we'd both have had enough of the foreplay to send us up to the next plateau.
Then I'd spread her out on the bed, put a pillow under her pretty little ass, mount into the saddle between those lovely long legs, and set the head of my prick in between the lips of her cunt. I was sure she'd pull me into her pussy by contracting her muscles and making it sort of suck me in until I was bang up against her, belly to belly. And she'd sigh deeply and say nice things about how good it felt inside. After a while, I'd just move it in and out easy, never losing connection, while she huffed and pushed along with me. I figured that was good for at least a half hour of special ecstasy. Well, maybe once in a while I'd stop for a breather and ease my cock almost out, and hold it there until she begged me to go again or push up to take me in again. After all, it was to be a joint operation.
Sometime later, the spirit would move both of us at about the same time and we'd go all wild until we both blew off together. Naturally, this timetable for a fuck was subject to change a few minutes either way at any stage of the operation, but it seemed really practical to me. I decided to head for Ivy MacMann at once and offer my heart, my hand, my prick, and every other part of me, to have and to hold until death us do part.
"Look here, Hendry, drop your cock and get that silly grin off your face. You haven't heard a word I've said. But something nice and nasty has been going on in your mind. Now, zip your trousers and tell me how you managed to get through all this investigation and interviewing without getting fucked."
I pulled myself out of my daydream with a great effort and said, "It was because I was a goddamned fool who couldn't recognize a fucking opportunity when it was staring him in the face. But that's all over now. I have just decided how, where, and with whom I want to bust my cherry. I'm heading for Elko now and I'm going to put my proposition up to Miss Ivy MacMann. It won't be easy, but I'll do it."
Dr. Falstaff Q. Merkin nodded approvingly as I grinned and said to him, "In fact, I hope it'll be hard-very hard!"
