Although this work is non-fiction, every attempt has been made by the author to protect the identity of everyone inside the covers. Further, the girls who cover the conventions and make themselves available to the men, were all pleased at the idea of expressing themselves and telling about the life and times of Convention Hookers. The men ... well, they liked the idea of being in a book, too. A great number of the men who were interviewed had an idea that I should pay for them their services in one way or another, however.
Which says a lot. Prostitution is still considered a woman's field, regardless of the growing number of male hookers. And most of the men who are in the business feel superior to the women.
Ellen Evans October, 1976
PART ONE The Judges
CHAPTER ONE
They got out of the taxi and stood on the crowded sidewalk, apparently unperturbed by the July drizzle that turned the already dirty streets of New York a darker shade of gloom. They waited pleasantly while the cab driver took their expensive luggage from the cab, two long-legged, suntanned spots of beauty in their white pants suits that clung to every line of their lush bodies. The doorman put the luggage on his carrier. The girls called a cheery thank-you to the cab driver and went into the hotel with their heads held high, an aura of importance about them, yet somehow creating the impression of wealth and good breeding.
One was tall. She was close to six feet, but slender and supple as a wand, and she was so assured of her elegant appearance that she didn't give so much as a careless glance at the full-length mirror that covered one side of the lobby. Instead, she looked at her companion, brushed a strand of honey blonde hair from the other girl's face, then addressed herself to the desk clerk. Speaking in a well modulated voice that smacked of good breeding, she said, "Reservations for Landham and Jenkins."
"Yes, ma'am." The clerk used the smile he reserved for important guests.
While the girls stood at the desk and did the business of registering, the lobby filled with men. The smaller girl, the blonde one, frowned slightly. "Don't tell me there's a convention here at the hotel."
"They're judges, Miss Landham," answered the clerk. "Very quiet and dignified. Nobody rowdy, take my word for it."
The blonde looked doubtful. "Maybe we'd better check with the folks before we take the suite, Bev."
"Good heavens, Bunny!" The tall brunette smiled. "Judges aren't going to-anyway, we're here in New York to shop. We'll barely spend any time in the suite."
A bellman came forward and pushed the stack of luggage toward the row of elevators, his eyes both admiring and envious as he looked at the lovely girls. Admiring because they were beautiful and graceful and well-bred, envious because they were obviously not the kind of girls he would ever know except in passing.
The tall girl tipped him well. They both thanked him and gave him warm but reserved smiles. When he left their suite of rooms he stood for a moment just outside the door. Another bellman saw him standing there gazing off into space. "Somebody stiff you, Clark?"
"No. I just brought up a couple of rich bitches. Nice girls. Smith or Vassar stuff. I'll bet they come from families that are loaded. Christ. What'd it be like to fuck a girl like that? You know what, Glen? I bet those girls are smart as whips. I'd like to have a woman just once in my life that didn't chew bubble gum or giggle when she's screwing."
"Real quality stuff, huh, Clark?" The other bellman was younger. He turned to go on down the hall, whistling. Looking over his shoulder, he said in a near-whisper, "What the hell, Clark. You don't fuck a woman's head. Well ... yeah, you can, but I'm not talking about getting some head. What difference does it make whether a piece of ass is smart or dumb?"
"You crude son of a bitch." The bellman named Clark hurried to catch up with his co-worker, who punched the down bell. "You wouldn't understand what I'm talking about. Sometimes I see those golden girls, all suntanned and not a wrinkle on their faces, their bodies so perfect...." He sounded wistful.
The elevator was approaching. The other bellman grinned. "Shee-it. I bet they're hookers."
"No, they're not. Christ. After twenty years in this business I can tell a hooker a mile off."
Nobody but the elevator operator was on it as they went down. He looked up from his crossword puzzle, his intelligent face solemn. "Damn judges are about the horniest bunch of conventioneers I ever saw. I'm gonna do a paper on those bastards. Next fall I'll have my thesis all ready to turn in, and I won't have to leave the hotel for research material. How'd you like to have one of those jerks hand you down a sentence for, say, drunken driving? You know how they look when they sit up there on the bench with their faces so stern sitting in judgment?"
One of the bellmen started to answer, but the elevator was on the lobby level and an enormous crowd of men impatiently waited for someone to take their luggage so they could get settled in their rooms.
Margaret Jenkins was stretched out to her full exotic length on her queen-size bed. She'd slipped out of the Saks Fifth Avenue pants suit and into a demure looking little housecoat of pale yellow cotton that complimented her coppery tan and dark hair. It was a short housecoat, but not an immodest one. It came to just above her knees, and when it was buttoned all the way up to the little round collar it gave her a little-girl look. She raised one long, slender leg into the air and pointed her slim foot in the manner of a ballet dancer. Her dark eyes frowned as she noted a chip in her toenail enamel. "Rats," she said softly as she left the bed to rummage through the contents of a girlish-looking cosmetic bag. Then she sat down at the dressing table and carefully repaired the flaw in her otherwise flawless appearance.
"What's the matter?" The blonde girl was in the bathroom between the two bedrooms.
"That new pair of sandals I bought in St. Louis ruins my toenail polish."
"Horrors!" Paula Landham smiled at her lush and lovely self in the mirror above the wash basin. Her teeth were snowy white and perfect, an asset among many that she was most proud of. The year before she had paid almost five thousand dollars in dental bills in order to maintain that well-cared-for look. "How's that?"
Back on the bed, Margaret looked thoughtfully at her fingernails and found no fault with them. "How's what?"
"What I just said. Horrors. Just what a nice girl from Minneapolis would say, don't you think? I mean when her nice friend uses an expression like rats!"
"Well, we have to keep in our roles. If I said, 'Oh, fuck,' I might say it at the wrong time. Listen, Paula, did you see the suit that good-looking judge was wearing? I'm talking about the tall one with the dark hair who stood close to the desk when we registered. I'll bet that suit cost him five hundred dollars if it cost a dime." Margaret padded over to the open bathroom door so she wouldn't have to raise her voice.
"I didn't see the set of threads, Margie. I saw the bulge under his pants when his cock got the message his head was giving him when he saw you."
"Yeah. Well. According to my schedule, they'll be in the cocktail lounge before long."
Paula tossed her long mane of honey blonde hair. "We're not going in there, are we?"
"Of course not, silly. Our folks would be very upset with us if they thought we'd even consider going into a cocktail lounge without a proper escort-to whom we've been properly introduced, of course." Her laugh was sexy-throaty. "But we have to be seen. So we've only got thirty minutes. Let's give the judges another tantalizing glimpse, okay?"
The girls came down at a strategically planned time. The lobby was again filled with judges who were attending the convention. Now and then a splash of color appeared alongside the somberly attired men. A glance at the women quickly identified them as wives, for the most part. The majority were ladies with blue hair, carefully applied cosmetics, and dinner dresses with long jackets, designed to hide thickening waistlines and bulging bellies. A few were younger, but most of them had a wifely appearance that included a tightening of the mouth when their husbands gave the two stunning girls an appraising look. A few call girls had already infiltrated the ranks, but at that time they were few and far between.
Margaret Jenkins wore a subdued coral-colored dress that gave her sun-bronzed face an extra youthful glow that wasn't needed. Although her eyes swept appraisingly across the lobby in one quick glance, her expression was well-bred and gentle. She smiled as she chatted with Paula, and her appearance was that of a nice young girl from a good family who had nothing on her mind but some innocent pursuit suitable for daughters of good, substantial, rather old-fashioned fathers.
Paula wore virginal white and her accessories were beige. A froth of lace was at the high-necked beige blouse under her expensive suit. Both girls wore very little makeup.
"Something happened," said Paula just before they reached the revolving doors.
"Walk a little slower," answered Margaret. "It must be the Western Union people. You know we can depend on Earl. Anyway, I saw a vase of roses behind the desk out of the corner of my eyes."
The girls came to a halt in order to let the doorman in. "I know what we can do," said Paula. "We can go back and leave a message at the desk in case our parents call. Saying when we'll be back in the room."
"Okay." They walked back toward the desk. Just then another group of conventioning judges stepped off the elevator, which made the timing perfect. Margaret smiled pleasantly as she spoke to the desk clerk. "Would it be possible for us to leave a message in our box, in case our parents want to get in touch with us? We'd like them to know when we'll be back."
"Certainly, Miss Jenkins," said the clerk. His face lit up with a smile and his voice carried nicely. "Oh, I'm glad you stopped by. I was just about to send some beautiful roses up to your room."
Margaret blushed prettily and twisted the diamond on her third finger, left hand. She managed to look shy, embarrassed and just a little upset, all at once. "Dear Charles," she said softly as her eyes took in the long-stemmed roses. "So sweet of him, I'm sure. Well, can you just send them on up? We're already late, and with this rain it won't be easy to find a cab." She took a bill out of her purse and gave it to the clerk, instructing him a shade imperiously to send the roses up to the room with a bellman.
After they were inside the cab, Margaret and Paula exchanged a smile, but they didn't say anything about how well things went. At least a dozen well-heeled judges had overheard their conversation with the desk clerk, more than they could have hoped for.
Since the following three days would be highly lucrative, Paula and Margaret indulged themselves in a few little trinkets on Fifth Avenue before the shops closed. Then they took a cab to one of their favorite restaurants, where they dined on lobster.
It was almost nine o'clock when the girls returned to the hotel. Paula went to the hotel drug store where she purchased a bottle of hand lotion while Margaret entered the elevator. Five judges went up with her. One got off on the second floor. On the fourth floor, two more stepped off. She very carefully didn't look at any of them. "Five, please," she said politely, even though she'd said it when she got on.
One of the judges got off the elevator with her. He wasn't the one she had hoped for, but her disappointment didn't show in her face. Neither did her elation over making a contact so soon in the game. Sometimes it took as many as three trips up and down before she made a hit. And the operators remained on duty until midnight, which was an unsettling inconvenience. She didn't like their watchful eyes, their knowing glances, and she knew that very often the elevator men had their own girls to set up.
"Miss?" The tall, slender, grey-haired judge was about three steps behind her. She knew it because she could hear his footsteps on the thickly piled rug.
With the assurance of someone born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she turned around and faced him coolly. "Yes?"
"I thought maybe you'd like to have a drink with me," he said.
"Oh, no!" She blushed. Her long sooty lashes rested for a fragment of a second on her cheeks. "I couldn't do that."
"Why not?" He tried to speak boldly, but it didn't quite come off. He was feeling pretty good, she thought with elation, as she made careful note of his tendency to reach out toward the hall wall so he could hold on. His smile showed an expensive set of dentures and he spoke with a slightly backwoods accent. "I don't mean anything by asking you to have a little drink with me, Miss. I'm a judge." The way he said it implied that anybody with an impressive profession like judge could be nothing but loaded with integrity. "You remind me of a little old gal I used to date back home. Before I married the missus."
He finally made contact with the wall, which apparently gave him confidence. "Been married thirty years and never cheated on m'wife in m'life. Couldn't you just-sort of-you know ... gosh! It sure would give me a lot of pleasure just to sit and look at you for a little while. You won't have that drink with me?" Fumbling, he took out his wallet and showed her an identification card which she read swiftly.
The Hon. Robert Tatterslee
Tatum County
Arkansas , "I've got a daughter back home not much older'n you." His eyes were vaguely myopic, his mouth slightly loose, and when he spoke of his daughter it was as if he might be telling her that anybody who had a daughter not much older than she was simply had to be a trustworthy man. She appeared just a little frightened. He grew persuasive. "Honey, I'm just about the loneliest man in the world. Should have brought along the missus, but she's been feeling poorly. I never did fit in with these big-shots ... tell you what. Just have one little-bitty drink with me, then you can go straight to your room. Do I look like a man that would molest a sweet young thing like you?"
"No, of course not," she said in her best finishing school voice. "But we'll have to be quick about it. My friend is down in the drugstore getting some hand lotion. She wouldn't approve." She allowed her eyes to look into his, and they still looked a little frightened. "She might even tell my daddy when he calls tonight. He checks up on me when I come to New York, and it really makes me mad, too."
The man chuckled. "How old are you, honey?"
"Nineteen."
"Son of a gun!" He slapped his knee with the palm of his hand as if he had just heard the most amazing thing in the world. "Nineteen!"
Fifteen minutes later The Honorable Robert Tatterslee of Tatum County, Arkansas was naked as a jaybird and down on his knees at the side of the bed in his room. His arm clasped Margaret Jenkins' elegant legs as he looked up at her slavishly. "Honey, oh, baby, oh, honey, please let me lick that darlin' little pussy of yours. Just once, huh? Come on, baby. Don't act that way."
CHAPTER TWO
Paula didn't make a hit as quickly. Two of the judges were in the drug store when she entered. One was a grim looking man of around thirty who struck her immediately as one of those people who take themselves too seriously. His mouth turned down at the corners and he barely noticed her, so intent was he upon the magazines he was picking out. She decided he was going to his room to read and jack himself off, pegged him as a cheap bastard who wouldn't even want to buy a girl dinner. Or else his wife had come along to the convention.
The other one was buying some sleeping pills. He had a prescription from his doctor back home in Vermont, which Paula read with ease from under her long dark golden lashes. She picked up some interested vibes from him, but a quick glance at his clothes told her he couldn't afford her price. They were shabby and shiny in the seat and at the elbows. She knew she could be wrong, that some very rich men are careless about their appearance, but she had a tendency to operate on instinct. Still, she gave him a nice little innocent glance when he turned toward her. He might be a fifty-dollar trick, but she doubted it. He smelled more like twenty-five, and she wanted a hundred.
He smiled. She didn't. "A bottle of Jergens hand lotion, please," she said to the clerk.
"My mother always used that," said the judge. He moved closer to her. She saw his fingernails and moved away, pretending faint alarm. His fingernails were not clean, and she doubted if he'd ever had a manicure in his life. They were all jagged. Not worth her time.
She paid for her purchase and left the drug store, which opened into the lobby. Two more judges were entering the store. One decided to play games. He stepped to the right when she did, and stepped to the left when she did. They danced around, side-stepping and smiling at one another while the other man went into the drug store, calling over his shoulder, "Come on, Harry. Goddammit, you're actin' like a teenage kid."
Paula smelled a very expensive cologne and appreciated the cut of the clothes. She laughed out loud, appearing to enjoy the game although she found it stupid. A glance at his name tag told her he was Harry Frame from Doolittle, Georgia. A whiff of his breath and his high color as well as his bleary eyes told her he was very, very drunk.
Paula preferred drunk tricks to sober ones. They were easy for her to manage, easy to convince they'd been laid when they hadn't, and sometimes didn't bother with anything more than a casual kiss and a few feels once they had a girl inside their room. Sometimes they even passed out cold once they hit the bed, which made it easy to lift a couple of nice-sized bills from their wallets in exchange for nothing.
"What are you up to, you little dickens?" Old Harry was a card, she thought nastily as she gave him a bright smile.
He came very close to her and looked at her tits, with his eyes all bugged out in appreciation. In a hoarse whisper, he said, "You got some kind of titties, sugarpants. I bet you never did have them titties sucked real nice in your life. Bet I could do it for you, though."
Just then the other man came and grabbed Harry by the arm. "Harry, you old fucker, you, we got our wives with us on this convention!"
"Shit, I plumb forgot all about them frumps," answered Harry with a decidedly disappointed look in Paula's direction.
"Please excuse him, little lady," said the other man. "He don't mean nothin' by whatever it was he was saying to ya."
Her carefree, girlish laughter rang out. "Oh, he reminds me of my daddy. I didn't think anything of it, sir." But her soft, tender throat tightened with anger as she tripped across the lobby, very conscious but not showing it, of the eyes that followed every line of her luscious body.
The elevator operator gave her a wise look. She went up in the elevator alone except for him. He didn't open the door for a second after he reached her floor. Instead, he said in a thin voice, "Doll, you want to pick up some change?"
She realized he'd seen the two-step business in the doorway of the entrance from the drug store. Feeling frozen, she looked at him haughtily, hoping desperately that she was coming off the way she wanted to. He was probably pimping for a few regular girls who were hustling the convention and she didn't like to think about what sometimes happened to girls who trod on turf that was clearly defined as somebody else's territory. "I don't think I heard you correctly," she said with a veiled threat in her voice. "At least, I hope I didn't."
"Come on." His shirt was wilted and a mass of ingrown hairs caused pimples under the collar. They looked purplish against his too-pale skin. "Don't hand me that. Some of these judges got it to burn. They asked me about girls, some of them."
"Oh!" She backed up against the wall. "You're horrid! I'm going to report you to the manager. Let me out of this elevator this instant!" Two tears rolled down her cheeks, one from each eye.
"Sorry, chick," he said. "I guess I was mistaken." And he opened the door.
She took out a nice clean handkerchief from her purse and wiped at her eyes as she got off and started down the hall. On the inside she was seething. The encounter with the wise-ass could screw her up if she didn't watch it. And screw Margaret up, too. At the moment, she didn't dare to risk another trip down the elevator. Waiting until midnight, when people had to take themselves up and down, didn't appeal to her greatly either.
Luck loomed up in front of her in the shape of a man in a gray suit. She'd been too busy with her thoughts to bother looking around the hallway, and past experience had taught her that halls weren't very good for making contacts anyway.
He looked like an undertaker instead of a judge, and he talked like one, too, she thought as she read his name tag under the fan of light from the wall sconces.
The Honorable
Archer M. Smith-Turner
Wheeling County, Wisconsin
"Beautiful lady," he began with a bow that almost ended on the floor he'd just picked himself up from. "Allow me to slay the dragon that caused those beautiful eyes to fill with tears." He gave her a very drunken smile that almost made her laugh out loud, because it was so full of morbid woe and tinged with the same kind of phony sympathy she'd recently encountered at a funeral. "I am at your service, my dear." He straightened up from his bow and fell against a hall table. "I'll slay your dragon as soon as I can stand up, anyway," he muttered.
"That elevator operator insulted me," she said.
"The cad." He blinked owlishly and fell over sideways. She caught him, propped him up and said sympathetically that maybe she should get help since he didn't feel well.
"I've had a bit too much to drink, dear," he answered. "But drinking never affects my speech. Just my legs. And balance."
A burst of loud laughter, the kind that erupts after somebody has told a blue story, came from the room they were closest to. She offered to get help again. He said he preferred not to have anybody see him in his condition, that he was a highly respected and respectable judge. Could she let him lean on her ever so slightly until he could find his room? If so, he would thank her graciously, and when he recovered he would thrash the boorish elevator operator soundly for insulting a nice girl like she obviously was. "I saw you and your friend down in the lobby, and I said to myself that you were certainly two of the nicest girls I'd seen in a long time."
"She's my cousin," said Paula. "We came to New York to buy her wedding trousseau."
"Upon my word!" The honorable Archer M. Turner-Smith fell to the floor again. "I think somebody put a mickey in that last drink. Or else we're having an earthquake."
He crawled along on his hands and knees in a crab-like manner while she asked him to tell her his room number. She was relieved when he said it, because they were right there. Happily, he hadn't locked the door, either. She dragged him inside and offered to get him a bromo-seltzer or run down to her own room and get some coffee. "Or we could call room service."
"I don't drink coffee," he said as he fell across the bed. "My dear child, it would please me greatly if you were not such a gently-bred young creature. What I need right now is a really good whore."
"Oh, dear." She didn't bother to gasp or pretend to run away, because she thought he was too far gone to notice her acting ability.
"If I could just get my cock sucked, I think I'd be all right," he announced as he rolled his head back and forth. Then he looked unhappy and apologized for what he'd just said, if he'd said anything impolite.
"I'll run down the hall and see if I can find you a nice girl who'll do just that," she said breathlessly. And run down the hall she did, to her own room, where she threw on a short, curly brown wig that gave her an impish look. It seemed prudent to slip out of the pristine white suit too, so she peeled out of it quickly and threw on Margaret's little pale yellow cotton housecoat. It didn't take long for her to dash back down the hall and slip into the bed with him.
He was snoring. She looked around for his billfold, hoping he'd left it in the unlocked room, but he hadn't. Sighing, she began to talk to him, one hand reaching inside his unzipped pants, the other fishing around for the billfold. "Suck it, honey," he mumbled.
"Sure, lover."
He'd left a lamp on in the room. A jar of vaseline was on the night table. Never one to pass up a good opportunity, she dipped her fingers into the vaseline and massaged the flaccid, pulpy head of his cock.
"Don't bite it, sugar," he said.
"I won't."
He opened his eyes. "How can you talk so plain when you've got your mouth on my cock?"
She didn't say anything, because she didn't know how to answer that one. Apparently he didn't see her when he opened his eyes, because he closed them again and moaned in ecstasy. His cock began to take a mild interest in the action.
"Prettiest little cock-sucker in Wheeling County," he said.
She didn't say anything, but she wondered whom he thought he was talking to.
"I always said, goddam it to hell, you've got lips that were made for sucking cock."
Her hand moved faster. She used her palm and curled her fingers expertly, which created, with the help of the vaseline, a sucking sound.
"When I've shot off and get it up again, sweetheart, I'm going to fuck you in the ass. Always wanted to, you know."
"Mmmm," she said against his belly, knowing he'd think she was talking around his cock.
"Prettiest little ass in Wheeling County."
"Mmmm," she murmured in a different key, lower and more delighted.
"Touch my balls a little, angel."
The hand that wasn't working over the head of his cock snaked obediently down to his balls and began stroking them gently. But she wasn't going to stop the hand action, because his prick was lurching and thumping, suddenly rock-hard. It was enormous, which didn't surprise her, because she'd seen his big feet. Size fifteen, without a doubt, which usually meant a whopper. She stopped stroking his balls long enough to wrap the fingers of both hands around it, and wasn't surprised to see a good four inches sticking out from the top.
"Put your pussy up here in my face, darling. I have to have that sweet little cunt on my tongue."
"Oh, shit," she breathed, but yanked off her bikini panties and let him have it, the quicker to get it over with. Right away she wished she hadn't, because he chortled with delight, his voice coming muffled from under her slit, but very clear. Clear enough to make her think he was either not as drunk as she'd thought he was, or that he was recovering quickly. His body language was suddenly more alive, too. His long legs stiffened and his feet curled.
"Baby doll! You finally did it! Think of it! All these years I've been wanting to taste your adorable little cunt, and you have to wait until we come to New York to let me!" His tongue snaked in between her pussy lips and she moaned with a pleasure she didn't feel.
"Beautiful," he muttered, his nose rammed against her clit. She was on top of him, her own head several inches away from his cock, but he didn't know the difference. Obviously, he was in ecstasy, and before long it occurred to her that he must think he was with his wife. He kept saying in between dives into her cunt, things like, "I knew it'd be heaven! Just knew it!" And, "Twenty-two years and you never let me eat your pussy before."
She laughed, but held it inside, knowing that if he noticed at all he'd think she was jerking in the throes of passion. What tickled her was the idea of some middle-aged housewife back there in Wheeling County who had been married all those years and never let her husband eat her out-then the husband thinking he did when he was drunk. Wisconsin was a long way from New York. Then a mind-blowing idea caused her to almost stop all the action. She didn't know the bastard's wife was back in Wisconsin. Things would get sticky if the wife happened to walk in.
A quick look at his cock told her he was about to gush, and she'd spent a lot of effort on him. So she hurried things along by sneaking a middle finger into his asshole and twirling it around. His orgasm was quick, just as she knew it would be. His hips thrust violently and his ass hammered hard against the bed. He shuddered and shot, an agonized scream of pleasure on the lips that went loose against her clit. Under her body she could feel his heart thumping as his shudders simmered down to little jerks of limbs and torso. Finally, he was breathing normally, and she wanted to get off, get the fat wallet that she'd taken from his back pocket and dropped onto the floor, get her money and leave. But she wasn't sure he was sleeping, so she waited.
In the next room a deep, hearty and jovial voice asked whoever was listening, "You ever hear the one about the Christmas package?"
Male laughter followed the question, along with a few drunken requests. "No, we never heard it, Howard, go ahead and tell it."
One of the men spoke sarcastically. "You already told that fuckin' story."
What sounded like about ten other men said no, Howard hadn't told it, and for Mike to pipe down. "Go on, ole buddy. Tell us about the Christmas package."
Paula remained very still, waiting for His Honor underneath to go into the deep breathing or snoring of heavy sleep. She hoped it would be soon, because her legs were getting cramped.
"Well," began the jovial, happy-drunk voice from the next room, "seems there was this man who went into a department store looking for something special for Christmas. For himself. By God, it was Christmas and he didn't have anybody to give anything to, see, and nobody to give him anything. So he was going to get himself a present.
"So there was this clerk who said he had something really special. Clerk told him to reach his hand in this little box he had and take a feel. Customer did, and said it felt like pussy.
"Clerk said, stick your nose in there, ole buddy, and take a whiff.
"Customer did and said, 'By God! It smells like pussy!'
"Clerk said, 'Now stick your tongue in there and taste it a little."
"The customer rammed his tongue inside that little box and-by God! Said, 'It even tastes like pussy.' See, it was warm and wet and had all the things going for it that-"
"Just tell the story," yelled one of the men. "Get to the fucking punch line!"
Howard sounded injured. "I'm going to. Give me a chance, will you? So the clerk said that little package cost fifty dollars. Customer said, 'I'll take it!'
"Clerk said, 'You want me to wrap it for you?' " 'No,' said the customer. 'I'll just eat it here.' " Uproarious laughter sounded from the other room.
Paula moved ever so slightly. Under her, The Honorable Archer M. Smith-Turner remained limp and still. He started snoring. She hoisted one leg over his relaxed body and pivoted around on one knee so she could look at his face. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. The snores increased in volume and a weird whistling sound came from deep in his throat when he exhaled. Satisfied that he was out of it, she dropped lightly to the floor, threw on the pale yellow housecoat that belonged to Margaret and reached for his billfold, all in one fluid movement.
Her fingers expertly extracted two one hundred dollar bills and she was in the process of stealthily opening the door that led to the hall when a small woman of about forty pushed the door inward, her voice raised in greeting. "Arch, honey, I'm back! The Rockettes were-" Her mouth opened as she took in Paula, short housecoat unbuttoned, dark brown wig slightly frazzled, bikini panties in hand, and her husband passed out naked on the bed. "Who are-what are you-oh! You're a whore! Oh!" Her small hands reached out like a couple of claws, fingernails long and capable of slashing.
Paula gave her a push toward the bed and fled. She was grateful that the suite of rooms she and Margaret had was not far down the hall. As she ran, she heard the woman screaming, and before she was in her own suite she knew the men in the room next door to Archer Smith-Turner and wife were rushing to the woman's aid. Their voices were raised in a hubbub of startled sound that she could still hear even though she was inside, panting, her back against her closed door.
After a while she was able to leave her position against the door to walk rubber-legged to the dresser and a bottle of gin. She tipped up the bottle, swallowed, gagged and shuddered before she sat down in a chair to think things over. Wearing the wig was a good idea, she decided, as soon as her senses simmered down enough to help her decide anything. A quick glance into the mirror assured her that none of her own honey blonde hair had escaped from underneath. Another shot of gin made her feel more secure, because by then she realized that Smith-Turner's wife would probably not raise a big stink. After all, her husband was a judge! She could hardly afford to complain to the hotel authorities.
The two hundred-dollar bills were still crumpled tightly in her fist. She dropped them in her purse, yawned, removed Margaret's little housecoat and decided she'd worked enough for one night. After a long, hot tub bath, she tried to sleep but couldn't because she kept seeing the violence in the violet eyes of that woman when she'd come at her with those long, sharp fingernails. She needed to take her mind off the incident, so she turned on the set in her bedroom and stretched out to watch television. After a while she began to feel pretty good about the incident. Margaret came in, obviously prepared to bathe, change and go out for another session.
"You'd better get up and get at it too, Paula," she said as she applied rosy lipstick. "The halls are swarming with horny judges, and they're only here for three days."
"I don't feel like it." Paula told the other girl about the incident in the Honorable Smith-Turner's room. Margaret listened quietly. When Paula was finished, she said, "You just aren't careful enough. You should have asked him if his wife came to New York with him."
"I just figured something out," said Paula. She giggled. "No wonder he kept thinking I was his wife. At the time, I was too busy getting away to really think about anything but getting out of there, but you know, that woman looks a lot like me. She wears her dark hair in a short style and there's something about her features that-of course, she's shorter than I am, but just the same...."
Margaret went to the window and opened it. Then she threw her pale yellow housecoat down on the street. "Just in case," she said as she turned around, "the wife remembers what you were wearing. Wonder what's going on in that room along about now? Well ... I'm glad I'm tall. Nobody would ever mistake me for you."
CHAPTER THREE
The wife of the Wheeling County judge immediately regretted that she'd acted on instinct; that she'd screamed loud enough to attract the attention of the partying judges in the next room and cause them to rush drunkenly to her aid.
Audrey married Archer Smith-Turner when he was a struggling young lawyer who showed a marked talent at acting in the Little Theater Group, but not much ability in the courtroom. It was Audrey Smith-Turner who did the most toward furthering her husband's goals in life by shoring him up when he was down, seeing to it that he didn't turn to the bottle when he was depressed, and even helping him with difficult cases by using her shrewd mind to his advantage.
Until he became fascinated with pretty young Audrey, Archer had not really liked the idea of being an attorney. As a young man, his parents insisted that he become a doctor or a lawyer. His family before him had always been in a profession, they kept reminding him. And if young Archie thought he was going to be a ne'er-do-well, he certainly had better think again. They had a position to maintain in the community, and if he knew what was good for him he'd uphold that position.
Archie chose lawyering over doctoring as the lesser of two evils. He fainted at the sight of blood and tended toward hypochondria, a condition that would have kept him in a state of chronic illness if he'd gone into medicine. All he really wanted to do was screw all the pretty girls in town, drink all the booze available, and in his spare time, act in the Little Theater productions, preferably in Shakespearean roles. His parents approved of lovely Audrey, who came from a good family, but not a better family than their own. Her father was a veterinarian. Shortly after the marriage, Archer's mother had a talk with his bride.
"Archie is a good boy, but he hasn't as much backbone as he ought to have. But he's got a good mind, and all he really needs is the guidance of a good woman to get him where he ought to go in life." Then the older woman smiled and told her new daughter-in-law a closely-kept family secret. "Archie doesn't get his lackadaisical behavior from a stranger, Audrey. His father was totally without direction until I married him and took a hand in his career. And just look at him now! One of the most respected men in the community! Now, Audrey, you can do the same thing for Archie, too. And I'll tell you just exactly how to do what's best for him."
As the years passed, Archie became fairly famous for his astute courtroom procedure. His law office was always filled with people seeking his advice. Audrey decided, at about the time their children were in high school, that Archie would make a fine judge, so she took steps to make him one. He didn't protest much, and after a while he believed seeking the judgeship was his idea. He'd been a good husband, except for that one sticky affair he'd had with a fat girl named Betty Jean, who had come to him about a divorce. Audrey had been both appalled and heartsick. She made short shrift of the affair, and ever since then, Archie had been well-behaved.
During the mind-bending moment when Mrs. Smith-Turner walked into the hotel room she shared with her husband, and the few confusing seconds shortly after when she faced the dark-haired vixen, Archie's affair with fat Betty Jean came full-blown into Audrey's mind, which probably had something to do with her rush of first panic. But she was not a woman who usually acted on impulse, and she was capable of covering errors with the speed of lightning.
By the time the carousing judges from next door entered the room, Audrey had the situation in control. She'd thrown the bedspread over Archie's naked body and removed his billfold from the floor to the night table. Then she'd glanced quickly about the room to make sure no other evidence of Archie's imprudence was lying about.
Speaking rapidly, she explained that she'd come upon a young woman in the process of stealing her husband's money. "She had his watch in her hands when I walked in, but I managed to get it," she added triumphantly. Then, with a gentle and wifely smile, she added that Archie had no doubt had too much to drink. "Otherwise, he'd have locked the door while I went to see the Rockettes with Mildred Gibson."
"No," she answered when one of the men asked if anything was missing. "The little thief didn't get to steal anything. But I think we'd better call downstairs and make a complaint."
When the house detective came up to the room, Audrey described the alleged thief as a rather small girl, about her own size. "She had short, curly dark hair and was wearing a yellow dress. A mini-dress. And she looked very young, too, about fifteen."
Archie snored complacently through the session with the house detective. "The girl is probably blocks away from here by now," said Audrey. "But of course, that's New York for you."
The detective agreed that the girl, caught in the act, was probably long gone by then, but he said he'd double their security. "You people should make sure your doors are locked. The hotel can't be responsible for theft when you don't take precautions to prevent it."
The judges from next door, who had stayed in the room with Audrey were a little disgruntled, but since the thief hadn't really taken anything they decided to stay where they were for the balance of the convention, even though one of them kept saying they should all leave immediately.
When she had closed the door on all her loyal supporters, Audrey went over to the bed and yanked the spread away so she could inspect her husband's limp cock. She bent down and sniffed, but had to admit she smelled no revealing scent of pussy. Still, those white, flaky traces on his inner thighs were come, or she'd never seen come in her life. And the film of vaseline that still remained on his balls and penis was something else again. "Archie," she said softly.
"Set 'em up in the other alley," said Archie.
Mrs. Smith-Turner's rage turned icy. She'd gotten a whiff of his mouth, which smelled like perfume, as well as an elusive odor she connected with sex, although it wasn't unpleasant. The curly dark-blonde hair that clung to the side of his mouth was the real sizzler, though. She held the tell-tale pussy hair between her index finger and thumb for a moment while she steamed inwardly. Before she spoke again, she put it carefully into a hotel-stationery envelope and wrote the date on it, sealed it and dropped it into her purse. Divorce was probably not in her future, but it was always good to be prepared. Her purse snapped together in a business-like way when she closed it before she went back to stand over her husband. She was not going to let the sleeping judge lie. A glass of ice water in his face aroused him sufficiently.
"You had a woman in this room while Mildred Gibson and I went to see the Rockettes," said Audrey.
"Dear heart," said the judge. "How can you make such vile accusations? I am a sick man." He groaned to prove it and tried to roll over in the bed, kind of burrow into the sodden pillow where most of the ice water fell after it ran off his face.
"Don't you try weaseling out of this, Archie," said Audrey as she yanked him to a sitting position by the hair of his head. "And I'm not interested in flowery phrases, either. You had a whore in this room!"
"But I-"
"I saw her!"
"Most imprudent of me."
"Imprudent!" Audrey wasn't raising her voice. "How do you think I felt? If I hadn't acted quickly to save your reputation, you'd never stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting on the congressional ticket next year. You know very well that the party boss from back home is here at the convention. Oh, Archie, I could just cry!"
"Party boss, shit. Last I saw of him, he had a woman and they were heading for his room. You don't think they were going to play a hand of cards, do you? He can't say a thing about me."
"Listen, he can get out and screw around with New York whores if he wants to and get away with it, Archie. But you can't! Nobody gets elected to Congress from our state unless they have a spotless reputation! He sees to that. And you're a shoo-in! Oh! After all my hard work, Archie, how could you do this to me?"
"Darling girl, I was in a state of inebriation and I mistakenly thought she was you! I was in paradise because at last you were going to let me eat your darling pussy." Archie's truthful statement did not impress Audrey. His Honor spent an uncomfortable night under the tongue, and not in the context that he would have preferred.
The coffee shop on the ground floor of the hotel was doing a record-breaking business, considering the lateness of the hour. Waitresses were swift and efficient, but hard pressed to keep up with the demands of all those hungry judges who were stopping in for a bite to eat before they retired for the night, after being out on the town. Short-order cooks sweated and swore as they put together steak sandwiches, cheeseburgers, club sandwiches, heros, and countless platters of ham and eggs.
The single men in the coffee shop outnumbered the single women five to one.
A morose-looking judge from Iowa walked along the street with a new acquaintance, a fellow judge from Illinois. They'd been talking politics. The Illinois man was seriously trying to make his point. He was a conservative and he'd just found out that the Iowa magistrate was a liberal. "I had you figured for a man of vision and common sense," he said as they neared the coffee shop. "I tell you, we've got to get people back to work and off the welfare rolls. Look at what happened here in New York. Certainly management helped to bankrupt the city, but the leeches who won't work are far more responsible than mismanagement. We've got the same thing up in Cook County. I guess you know we're on shaky grounds there. And it's the same old thing, freeloaders. As poor as we are down in my part of the state, we have our share of welfare recipients, but it isn't nearly as bad as up north."
The tall slender man from Iowa smiled. The Illinois magistrate was encouraged to go on with his dissertation, because it was the first time he'd seen Kenneth Jones smile all night long. "What the nation has to do is to find some way to make these lazy people get off their asses and-"
"Judge," interrupted The Honorable Kenneth Jones from Iowa, "did you ever have a black woman?"
"No, I wouldn't touch one with a ten-foot pole. As I was saying-"
"I think that's the sweetest-looking pussy I've ever seen in my life." The man from Iowa watched with obvious appreciation as a lush black girl swung into the coffee shop. "Let's stop in for a littie something, judge. I'm starving."
"She's a New York hustler," said the Illinois man. "I can tell by looking."
"I'm still hungry."
"So am I, but you want to stay away from these prostitutes."
"We can still go in and get something to eat. I've never been able to drink much without eating afterwards. Wake up with a bad hangover."
"I never paid for sex in my life," answered the judge from Illinois. "There are plenty of women out on the prowl, eager to go to bed with a presentable man."
They found a seat at a table for two that was loaded down with dirty dishes. A busboy came and dumped them into a deep tray with a careless clatter of crockery and jangle of silverware. "Busy night," he said by way of apology when a stray cup grazed the Iowa judge's shoulder.
A saucy little red-haired girl came to take their order. They had to shout above the laughter and talk in the place as well as the constant noise of orders being called in and served. "You judges sure do eat a lot," the waitress screamed into Bradford Busby's ear. "I can tell you're at the convention on account of your name tag. From Illinois, huh?"
He nodded stiffly.
"That's a long way from here. I'd like to go there some day, though, just to see what it's like." Her eyes lingered on his face, which was handsome as any motion picture star's. She smiled invitingly. "Why don't you put me in your pocket and take me home with you, huh?"
Bradford Busby smiled back at her. The frost in his penetrating dark eyes melted visibly under the girl's obvious interest. She turned a pleasant but business-like smile on Judge Jones. He didn't notice because he was too busy looking at the delectable black girl, who had seated herself at the counter with a seductive display of legs. He ordered ham and eggs, because he hadn't wanted to take his eyes off the beautiful girl long enough to glance at the menu.
Busby leaned forward. "I bet I could take that little charmer of a waitress to bed if I wanted to."
Jones reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the black girl. "Why don't you?"
"Because I'm a married man, that's why." The answer was sharp.
"Even married men like to screw. You ever screw your wife?"
"That's a hell of a thing to say."
"Why?" Jones kept looking at the black girl, who was having coffee. She finally looked his way, and her smile was intriguing. She moved slightly on the stool and it was a highly sensuous movement. Jones left ,his booth and went over there, where he spoke softly, but directly into her ear. "Room 437."
"Sure, honey," answered the girl.
He gave her his key, knowing he could get a duplicate at the desk. Back at the booth, he gathered his features into a melancholy expression that was habitual with him. To Busby, he said, "You were wrong. She's waiting for her husband."
"Bullshit," answered Busby. "If she's waiting for her husband, he's probably a pimp. I'd hate to see you get mixed up with a New York hooker, Jones. I'm glad she turned you down."
"That's the breaks," said Jones.
"What I'm going to do is find out when that redheaded waitress gets off work," announced Busby. "Why don't you play up to that little blonde over there? The one serving the order of fried chicken to that couple. I bet she'd be tickled to screw a judge. And let me tell you, friend, you won't have to pay for it."
Busby arranged to have a drink with the red-haired waitress when she got off work, which she said would be within half an hour. She agreed to come to his room. He winked broadly at Jones, who waited until the girl he wanted left the coffee shop before he ambled toward the lobby entrance and said he'd left his key in his room.
She said her name was Georgia, and she was born and brought up in Manhattan. Jones found her more exciting than any woman he'd ever seen before. Her voice was vibrant, but at the same time gentle. She wore her hair in a mass of tiny braids that were intertwined, which showed off the beautiful shape of her head as well as her features to good advantage. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes enormous, and her mouth expressive as she composed herself across the room from him, obviously very much at ease. "Are you interested in something special, honey?"
"Everything special," answered Jones.
"I'm not cheap, but I'm worth the price."
He waved a hand in the air. "I'll pay it. Whatever it is." His eyes were on her mellow breasts. They stuck out like grapefruit, the nipples visible under the fabric of her dress. "You're not wearing a brassiere."
"Don't have to, sugar. Not yet."
"Stand up and take your dress off. I want to see your breasts naked."
"Sure, honey." She stood and pulled the dress over her head to reveal nothing but smooth brown skin underneath. Jones licked his lips before he moved in on her. He buried his sad face between her sumptuous breasts for a long moment before he left her long enough to remove his clothes.
Judge Jones adored all women. He loved his wife of thirty years beyond reason, idolized his mother, and adored his two daughters. He and his wife had a reasonably good sex life. She was attractive and looked much closer to forty than her fifty-five years. When Jones was home he found it difficult to indulge in his passionate desire to have sex a minimum of three times within a twenty-four-hour period. His wife was still exciting to him, but she wasn't capable of accepting his passionate nature. He often thought he was oversexed to a great degree, which caused him considerable concern and contributed to his habitual expression of melancholy. His wife had never called him a sex maniac, but about six months after they were married she began to show a marked weight loss and developed dark circles under her eyes. Since Jones was a considerate man, he realized he was too much for her, and hoped to get over his driving urge to screw so often. He never did, though, and since he was ambitious as well as well--liked and respected in the community, he seldom gave in to his wild nature when at home. Instead, he discreetly excused himself when he was in the company of others, when the need to relieve himself of a load came over him. He realized his friends, co-workers and acquaintances probably thought he had a problem with his bladder. But sometimes he just had to find a bathroom and masturbate. If he didn't, he was afraid he might rape somebody some day-like the minister's wife, or his secretary, or any woman he saw on the street who struck his fancy-and almost all of them did. Sometimes he even found himself involved in an erotic fantasy in which he made love to both his college student daughters, something that terrified him when it happened, but came back with alarming frequency, mostly at unsuitable moments. Like during a particularly uninteresting court case, for instance. He was nearing sixty, and often hoped he'd get to the age where he'd simmer down a little in the sex department, but no sign of a drop down to normal was apparent. He felt like an aging Portnoy, torn between the desire to behave and feel like the figure of importance and respect he represented in his community, and the raging needs of his ready cock.
Georgia represented a number of the things he had always wanted. As a child, Judge Jones grew up in the deep south, and his mother didn't consider it lady-like to nurse her own babies. As a result, His Honor dreamed nostalgically of big, generous brown breasts with hard nipples. He adored the sight of brown skin, delighted in the texture of it, which made him feel loved and secure in that love. His wife made him feel loved and secure too, but only when he was making love to her ... but that was the thing. The only time he felt happy and truly content was when he was either about to fuck, actually doing it, or found himself floating in that delirious state of just having done it.
His fingers parted her incredibly soft cunt lips and his middle one dipped into the slick juices. His cock responded by growing two full inches and throbbing with hot anticipation. "You're as sexy as you look, Georgia," he murmured.
"You turn me on, honey, and that's a fact."
He believed her. Her eyes were big, and almost tearful with desire. He'd been with a lot of women who pretended a passion they didn't feel, including his wife sometimes, when she wanted to please him but didn't really need it for herself. So he knew all about the difference between the way an excited pussy feels and one that just wants to be left in peace. Georgia's pulsated. Her inner channel sucked at his finger. He grazed her clit with his thumb and felt it flutter. Her nipples were dark red-brown and puckered enchantingly all around the tips that stuck out at least half an inch. Her body humped and her eyes rolled. "Fuck me," she breathed into his neck. "Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"
The Honorable Kenneth Jones mounted quickly. His hard cock sought out Georgia's pulsating little pussy, and he groaned with pleasure as he drove it in there all the way to his throbbing, roiling balls. When he said, "I love you, Georgia," he wasn't lying. At the moment, he loved her very much.
She charged him fifty dollars, but he gave her another fifty out of gratitude, so she said she'd come back in the morning. But then she stretched out to rest a bit before she had to leave, and decided to spend the night.
The red-haired waitress was named Cindy. She was twenty-one years old, an art major at Pratt and a full-time waitress. The following year she planned to go to Ireland to visit her mother's people, but she was having a hard time saving the necessary funds for the trip. All night long she'd watched the street hookers parade around and make marks. They often came into the coffee shop for a quick cup of coffee to make contact, too. She knew the regulars from those who came for the convention, and even though she'd never done it before, she'd made up her mind she was going to take advantage of the judges' convention to pick up a few dollars toward her trip.
Cindy was just a little more determined than she was afraid, but a lot of things scared her. Her boy friend wouldn't like it if he found out, for one thing. For another, she didn't feel very capable when it came to sex. It had never done much of anything for her, although she didn't find it unpleasant, not even with her boy friend. Of course, she'd never told him she preferred to get herself off, because she was in love with him a little. To tell him the truth would hurt his feelings, and even though she'd been an easy lay since she was fourteen, she wasn't all that attractive to men, and she wanted to keep him. But the most important thing that kept her from coming right out and telling one of those judges that she was available for a price was the manager.
He was a fat, silly-acting young man of around thirty who liked boys. Every day he warned all the waitresses that they'd be fired on the spot if he found out they dated any of the hotel guests. But when she saw him playing up to a wizened little old judge from some western state, Cindy decided to hell with the manager and his threats. She suspected that he was going to suck the old man's cock for him, or at least let the judge fuck him in the ass, so she figured she had the right to do her thing, too. Anyway, it was safe. She saw the manager mince toward the lobby entrance shortly after that dried-up looking old judge left the coffee shop. When she came on to the Illinois magistrate, she was still a little unsure of herself, but knew it was then or never. All she hoped was that she'd satisfy the stern-looking man, and that she wouldn't have any trouble getting the money.
He stiffed her on the tip, which made her have a few more doubts about him, but before he left she agreed all over again to come to his room. He told her to knock three times. She hoped he'd make up for the tip when he paid her for screwing him.
As soon as she was off work, Cindy ran up all seven flights of stairs, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. Uppermost on her mind was the fear of getting caught where she wasn't supposed to be. She couldn't afford to lose her job.
As soon as she was in Busby's room, Cindy felt even more unsure about the whole thing. He talked to her about what was wrong with the country. "I don't see why everyone can't see this moral decay within the confines of our United States and I hope you understand-in fact, I'm sure you aren't one of those young people who make up the masses of the great unemployed. That's the trouble in a nutshell. Today's young people don't want to work for a living, and I'm glad to see that you're willing to support yourself by doing honest labor. And going to school to make something of yourself. People have gotten away from the churches, and when that happens the backbone of a nation begins to deteriorate." While he lectured, he was taking his clothes off, which he did as he walked briskly around the room. When he was naked, he said, "Well, I think we'd better get to it, don't you?"
"But you said we'd have a drink." It struck her that he certainly was a strange kind of man, as well as a stingy one. The bottle was right there, and since he didn't know yet that he was going to pay for fucking her, she felt the least he ought to do was offer her the drink he'd promised.
"Oh, yes. Excuse me." He had a shot glass that held a double, but he was careful to pour a single for her. Exact as any housewife measuring out the ingredients for a cake, he didn't let the cheap brand of bourbon get any higher than the single-mark on the shot glass. And he didn't have anything to mix with it but water, either. Again, she remembered the tip he didn't leave.
"You're such a handsome man," she breathed after she downed the burning booze. It almost made her gag. It was true, though, that he was handsome. Yet there was something about his face that turned her off, and she wished she'd played up to the sad-looking judge who had sat with him in the booth. But then she remembered how the other man had been so taken with the beautiful black hooker, and realized she couldn't have made it with him anyway. Still ... she wished circumstances had been different. This very good-looking man with his slender body that appeared in excellent shape wasn't going to like it when she asked for money. She sensed that he expected a free ride, that he was against prostitution on the same grounds that he was against everything else that didn't fit in with his structured view of how things should be. His talk about religion and morality confused her. She wondered how he could accept his desire to fuck-how he equated it in his understanding of right or wrong. He was a married man, because he wore a wedding band.
"You're a nice looking girl," he answered the compliment she'd given him. "A little on the thin side, but I guess waitress work is hard. Of course you're lucky there. Insurance companies keep telling us that we're healthier and live longer if we keep thin. My wife is a little on the heavy side. She's a self-indulgent woman." His mouth, the way he drew it downward, showed how much he disapproved of anybody who was self-indulgent. "But I don't believe in divorce. The family must remain sacred to our nation if we're to survive. Besides, I couldn't possible afford a divorce, because of the income bracket I'm in. Being married saves money, at least. She'd ask for over half of all I've made if we divorced. Get on the bed."
She got on the bed and realized that fucking was just like everything else to Bradford Busby. A necessity and a physical release, but not something he particularly enjoyed. Of course he enjoyed it anyway, she suspected, but he'd never admit it to himself any more than he would admit that he really got off on a good meal. She'd watched the picky way he ate. As if he might be chewing up sawdust and swallowed it. But he ate every bite and licked his lips, too.
He'd left his socks on. She wondered why and thought maybe it had something to do with his moral principals ... maybe he figured if he didn't take all his clothes off when he was getting ready to screw a woman who wasn't his wife, then. he wasn't really naked.
He didn't kiss her, nor did he touch her breasts, hold her in his arms or do any of the usual things a man did when he was with a woman. "Turn over," he instructed.
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to fuck you in the ass, that's why."
"I'm not sure I'd like that."
"Of course you'll like it. All women secretly yearn to be ass-fucked."
"I have never even thought about it." She was terrified at the idea. He wasn't very big, but still she knew it would hurt.
"Well, I simply can't do it any other way. I'm a married man. How do you think my wife would feel if she ever found out that I was intimate with another woman in the same way I'm intimate with her? It's morally wrong. What you want is strictly reserved for husband and wife, girl. Anyway, I can't take any chances about getting you pregnant, and I'm a very potent man. Now turn over and get on your hands and knees. I'll show you how to do it so it won't hurt. All you have to do is listen to me and do what I say."
"If it hurts, I'll scream," she warned.
He laughed. It was a stingy kind of laugh, as if giving in to a real belly-buster would cost him something. I've got this good old KY jelly. Keep it with me whenever I take a trip and don't have my wife with me. Just stick your skinny little rear end up here and I'll put some of it on your ass."
She closed her eyes and felt the coolness of the stuff against her puckered anus. Then he put in a finger and she winced, but it didn't really hurt. After a second or two the jelly didn't feel cool any more. He told her he was putting some on his cock, too. "That way, you'll hardly notice when it goes in."
She noticed all right, but she didn't complain, because she was too busy following his instructions about relaxing and letting herself go. It didn't hurt as much as she had thought it would, though. In fact, it felt pretty good. About as good as fucking in the usual way, except it made her feel like her bowels were going to move.
He told her to start humping, so she humped. Within a quarter of a minute she felt his hot juices spurt into her and his weight fell down against her back. It was all over, and she was glad. During the time it was going on, she'd wanted to reach between her legs and stick a finger in her cunt, maybe massage her clit, but she wasn't sure he'd want her to, and she was a little shy about doing things to herself in front of anyone, anyway. She hoped someday she could get her boy friend to do it to her that way. If he did, she'd ask him to massage her clit and finger-fuck her in the cunt. Maybe she'd even come that way, she thought, as the judge's stringy cock oozed out of her.
He went into the bathroom and she heard him in there, clearing his throat and running water. Her asshole felt on fire now that it was over, and it hurt worse every time she took a step. The bottle was right there on the desk where he'd left it, so she tipped it up and took a healthy slug, hoping it would ease the pain. She felt humiliated and degraded, and the more she thought about the way he had treated her-not even kissing her once, not touching her anywhere-the madder she got. His pants were where he'd left them, across the back of a chair. She thought about reaching in and taking out his wallet; of taking everything he had. It'd serve him right. But before she could cover the distance between where she was and the chair with his pants on it, he came running in from the bathroom with water dripping from his cock, and grabbed his pants. He'd gone quite pale, and she realized he'd either picked up on what she was thinking, or just coincidentally remembered the vulnerability of his wallet.
She dressed, wondering how to approach the subject of money. He said nothing. She sat down and asked him for another drink. Grudgingly, he gave it to her. She stood up after she downed it and walked over to the door, wondering if she could muster the courage to tell him what she wanted and hating herself for even thinking she might not. But her throat felt like an orange was lodged in it. Her voice came out in a wickening, little-girlish croak. "I need fifty dollars."
"You're out of your mind," he snarled.
"Well, twenty-five, then."
"I thought you cared for me." He'd removed the snarl quickly and replaced it with a fabricated look of disappointment. "Downstairs in the coffee shop you acted like you liked me. Do I look like the kind of man who comes to the big city and looks around for a prostitute?"
"No, you look like the coldest son of a bitch who ever walked in clothes." The phony expression he'd put on his face designed to make her feel sorry for him was what did it. She didn't have that red hair and Irish ancestry on her mother's side for nothing. "And you don't only look like it, you are! Besides that, you're a rank-assed liar and the worst kind. You lie to yourself. You said your wife is a very self-indulgent woman. Well, buster, you're the most selfish, unthoughtful bastard I ever heard of! You used me! I never charged anybody anything for a fuck before, and when I came up here I wasn't even sure I'd charge you, because I doubted if I could get up the courage to come right out and ask you for money." All the time she was talking she was heading toward the pants he clutched in his arms as if they were wrapped around Fort Knox.
One of her feet came up and pushed him over backwards onto the bed. He flailed about and tried to kick her back, but she was a slashing, goring little mass of temper. She grabbed the wallet and shook the contents onto the bed. All he had was what appeared to be around two hundred dollars, most of it in twenties. She scooped it all up and ran like hell for the door, got out, scooted down the hall to the stairway, and pushed the door open.
Judge Busby caught up with her at the door. He was panting, but so was she. She looked at him out of wild green eyes and said, "I'm keeping this. And if you tell, I'll swear you raped me, that you fucked me in the ass, and if I have to, I'll go to a doctor and make him swear you tore it. Besides that, I'll write to your wife and all those people back home who think you're such hot shit just because you're a judge."
Very slowly, the Honorable Bradford Busby turned to go back to his room.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Honorable Clayton Fairfax had agreed to come to the penthouse under what he considered false pretenses. Once he was there, he protested in a high-pitched, almost falsetto voice. The girl who invited him sat unperturbed at his side. Now and then she'd raise her eyebrows at him and say, "Shh".
"But I tell you, I don't go in for this kind of thing. I'm a married man, in the first place, and I'm a judge. What would people think if...."
"I know," murmured the wholesome-looking girl who had suckered him into coming up to the smoker. "A judge from Nebraska. Christ. And I thought I had a live one. Why don't you just let yourself go, Clayton, honey? Enjoy the show." She took her hand off the knitting she held in her lap and grasped the growing bulge between his legs. "You are enjoying the show. You've got a king-size hard-on or I never saw a king-size hard-on."
"Stop that!" His Honor looked around the big room. It was very dark in there, and the small man told himself to count his blessings. He started to remove the girl's hand from his cock but it felt so good-and it was pretty dark in the room, after all-and all the rest of the men were judges, too and he didn't really know any of them-
The girl unzipped his pants and the delicious shock of her bare hand on his throbbing cock made short shrift of any further protests. He was guiltily glad that she'd put her knitting down. It was the knitting that threw him. Clayton Fairfax hadn't thought a girl who went around carrying a knitting bag, which she took out in public and actually worked at, would be a bad girl. But bad girl she was and he knew it, but with that hand massaging so sweetly up and down his cock it didn't seem so important. He hoped he wouldn't come in her hand. But the tableau on that makeshift stage up there at the end of the big room wasn't doing much to calm his passion. He swallowed, noticing that he was not only drooling, but his tongue was hanging out as he watched the two girls going at each other with such abandon. He knew where he was. It was a girlie show. He'd heard of such things, but thank God they didn't have that kind of problem back home in Fairhaven County. The girl bent over and touched his cock with her lips. He felt the wetness of her mouth, the heat of her breath, the sudden sweetness of her tongue as she began licking all up and down the length of it.
"Oh, my God in heaven" he breathed in a near-whisper as he shut his eyes and groaned in mad ecstasy. "If Alma June knew about this she'd kill me. And motherdear!" The horrible idea of his mother finding out almost lost his erection for him. But not quite.
That girl certainly knew how to make a man feel good, he thought as he humped wildly and drove his cock deeper into her hot mouth. He felt lost in a cesspool of wickedness and to his shame he found it wonderful. Part of his mind told him to yank his thumping, driving cock right out of that awful woman's mouth, to remove the hand from his balls where it cupped and squeezed so tenderly, and force her other one off his staff. It was milking him just as surely as he milked the cows back home, and it was a terrible, evil thing he was allowing to happen to him. But that mouth! That hot, sweet, wet, wildly working mouthl His senses sizzled and his ears rang. Now and then he opened his tightly shut eyes to take another look at the filthy practices taking place up there on stage. But mostly he felt himself torn between the delectable pull of that girl's charming lips on his cock and the fear of being found out.
Another frightened, guilty look all around made him feel more secure. Other men, judges every one of them, were having the same thing done to them everywhere he looked. "Uhh," he breathed. "Oh, God, God, God, I can't take much more of that." She had both hands on his staff and every stroke she took downwards brought him closer to the brink of spilling into her mouth. Such a notion was shocking, against the moral principles he'd been brought up to believe and embraced for himself as he grew into manhood.
Up on the stage the two girls were flailing about with abandon. They made sickeningly suggestive sounds through their noses and mouths as they tongued and sucked each other down there where Clayton Fairfax believed nothing but a man's penis should ever touch (except for soap and water)-and then only in a state of holy wedlock for the purpose of procreation.
But the quick look at those writhing, undulating, erotic female bodies locked in forbidden sexual embrace caused his cock to leap even deeper into the girl's mouth. "Oh, dear," exclaimed the Honorable Clayton Fairfax. "Oh, mercy me!" With his two hands he tried, yes, he did, he honestly tried to push her head away. He could feel his sperm roiling around getting ready to surge forth into a tremendous orgasm, and to come into a woman's mouth was-well, it was just awful, that was what! He wondered if she knew what she was doing, if she were aware of the effect she had on him when she all but swallowed his penis like that, all the way to his balls!
"Oh, God," he yelled, and gave in to the insane drive to spend. "I can't help it," he screamed as he shot a wad down deep into her throat. "Oh, God help me!"
For what seemed an eternity afterwards, he reveled shamelessly in the aftershock while his hips kept humping and his body trembled mightily. In the distance, at the time seeming like at least a mile away, he heard a male voice speaking derisively. "Look at that mammy-jabbin' sumbitch, Sam! Looks like a dog shittin' razor blades! Ain't that some kind of action for a Sunday School tea-chin' judge from Nebraska? You owe me fifty bucks, judge."
Forever afterwards, those words would come back to haunt Clayton Fairfax, along with the accompanying brilliance of what he recognized as a number of flash bulbs. He died a hundred deaths each day as he went about his civic duties in Nebraska. Like when the mail was delivered to home or office, when the telephone rang, whenever a stranger appeared in the little town where he meted out justice. Moments later, when the girl had efficiently wiped off his shriveled cock and tucked it back inside his pants, when she'd put out her hand and said that'd be twenty-five dollars, when he was paying her with the speed of lightning and looking around for an exit, he was visited with a premonition of the future, and those thousands of deaths he would endure. And he said, "You-you-you don't think anybody'll try to blackmail me later on, do you?"
"Nah," she answered with a careless toss of her pretty blonde head. "No way. There's always a few guys in any party like this who want to take a few pictures. Don't worry about a thing, judge."
"I-I-I-I'm going to have to go back to the hotel, Gloria." He stood up, made sure his pants were all zippered up and walked on rubbery legs, wondering if he ought to thank her or revile her. "It was-" his adam's apple bobbed up and down as he looked down on her, remembering how lady-like she'd appeared when he first met her. "Very nice," he said feebly. "But-"
"But what, honey?" She looked up at him with big blue eyes.
Nervously, he tried not to notice the blob of white sticky stuff on her chin, thinking it would be impolite to call attention to a drop of come she'd neglected to wipe off.
"Nothing," he said with a quick gulp and a fast turn on his feet that headed him toward the door.
He wanted to get back to his own hotel very quickly, where he would get down on his hands and knees and pray for forgiveness. Then he would put in a long-distance call to Alma June and tell her how much he missed her. Maybe he would even call motherdear. But as he walked along the dismal streets of New York his mind kept going back over the mind-boggling experience and he found himself wishing that Alma June could be-well, not like that dreadful young harlot, certainly!-but more affectionate. She'd never touched his penis, something he'd wanted very often. He didn't think it could be considered wicked if a couple were married. She'd never come to bed without a nightgown on, and during the fifteen years they'd been married he'd only seen her naked one time. That was when she fell getting out of the bathtub and broke her ankle, which wasn't the way he'd have preferred seeing her naked.
Those were base desires. He knew it, but just the same, he kept thinking about what was going on back there in that penthouse in the other hotel, and a part of his mind wanted to return so much that he made the wrong turn and found himself right back in the doorway of it. Praying for strength, he put his feet on the proper path.
Back at the penthouse, the action increased. Gloria moved in on the two men who had been instrumental in setting things up with her and Judge Clayton Fairfax. "You bastards oughta be ashamed of yourselves. That poor little guy was about to cry."
The Honorable Milton Morrison from Mississippi laughed. "Did him good. A man shouldn't hafta go through life without knowin' how good it is to get a blow job, baby. That poor bastard has got the kind of wife you'd expect. I reckon they deserve each other. He told me, and I believe it, that him and her was both virgins when they got married. I said oh, shit, now, there ain't no virgins, especially men, and he swore he was too, that they both was. Started out in life to be a preacher. Went to the seminary for a year and came home one summer a nervous wreck. Seems some of his fellow students went in for masturbation and even bragged about it. Did it in groups. I reckon they was kind of into psychology. Hell! It never took no psychology for me to learn how sweet it is to whang off back when I was a kid and couldn't get no pussy. I started doin' it when I was about seven. I came right out and asked Clayton. I said, goddamit, man, you gone stand right there and tell me you never pulled your meat any? He kind of flushed and admitted he'd done it a few times, but his mother caught him and throwed such a fit he quit. Calls her motherdear. Looked plumb self-righteous when he told me he was proud to say he'd never even looked lustfully at another woman since he got married. I knowed all along the little fool was lyin'. Lyin' to himself, which is the very worst kinda liar, but hell, he cain't he'p it. I said to him, man, what the hell you think that pecker of your'n is for if it ain't to get pleasurin' out of; but he just gave me that sorrowful look of his and didn't answer. You know, I had a brother who went to the seminary. Turned out to be a right smart preacher, too. But talk about horny! I reckon a man like poor old Clayton-seein' young men doin' what he'd been taught all his life long to deny, well, no wonder he had a nervous breakdown and turned to studyin' law." Morrison jammed his cigar back into his mouth and looked at Gloria shrewdly. "He pay you all right, honey?"
"No. And I didn't have the heart to insist. I think you men are terrible."
"Oh, shit, now," answered Judge Milton Morrison. "Whoever heard tell of a whore with notions like that? Here." He gave her five dollars and turned to Magistrate Sam Cronkite III, his fellow conspirator in the seduction of Clayton Fairfax. "Give Gloria five bucks, you fool. Gloria done turned into-that storybook creature, a whore with a heart of gold. Couldn't bring herself to ask Judge Fairfax to pay her."
Cronkite gave the girl a five-dollar bill. "It was worth it to see that little fella get his rocks off good and proper for once in his life. I bet he shot you a wad big enough to make you shoke, Gloria."
"I usually charge twenty-five for a whole hour," she said with a sweet smile on her pretty face.
"Well, you suck my cock for me the way you did for Clayton and I'll give you twenty-five more," said Cronkite. "That five bucks was just a gesture of my appreciation for what you did for your fellow man."
Gloria hesitated. She preferred to look around in the smoke-filled room for another mark, and there were plenty available. Cronkite lived close by. He'd been her trick before and she knew it took a lot of work to get him off. But a bird in the hand-she compromised by telling him she'd be right back, she had to go to the rest room. That way, she'd have him standing by while she looked around for easier work. She wished Alice would bring on another act. It had been several minutes since the two girls slumped to the floor to rest a bit after their act that culminated in multiple orgasms-or what appeared to be multiple orgasms.
A glance at her watch told Gloria the night was still young. Counting the extra ten she'd picked up from the Johns who set her up with the little guy, she'd already made sixty dollars, and she wasn't going to mention that ten to Jimmie, either, the bastard. She might not mention that first trick, come to think of it, because she hadn't made the first twenty-five in the penthouse apartment, and she was getting sick and tired of the high-handed way Jimmie had been treating her lately.
As she wended her way through the crowded room, Gloria considered, possibly for the tenth time that day, breaking it off with Jimmie. Back in the days when she was on her own she hadn't made as much as she did under Jimmie's protection, because he had all kinds of contacts and ins with everybody that counted-but just the same, she still felt used. Goddammit, she thought, as she turned a bright smile on an old judge whose name tag said he was from Texas, it's my body. Why should I give Jimmie a percentage, anyway?
The Texan had snow-white hair. Tufts of it grew out of his nose and ears. "Hello, honey, you look lonesome," she said. "You want a little company?" When they got that old they weren't much to Gloria's taste, because the old-man smell made her gag sometimes, but coming from Texas and all, she figured he'd probably be loaded. "Where you from in Texas, Mr. Waldecamp?"
"Dallas," he answered dourly.
"Why, you don't even have a drink. It's empty! Why don't I run over to the bar and get you a fresh one?" Her smile grew wider, because men from Dallas gave the very finest pay. He agreed that it'd be nice for her to bring him a fresh scotch, and her thoughts returned to Jimmie, the pimp, wondering if she could get by with another trick on her own. She hoped the Texan would spring for fifty.
Jimmie was at the bar. He gave her a quick smile that chilled her to the bone because of what she'd been thinking. Working the streets in New York just wasn't the way it had been back home in Detroit, she thought in sorrow as she asked the bartender for a scotch and water.
"That's not for you, is it?" Jimmie kept his voice low, but it penetrated Gloria's ears and seemed to shove a shiver into her heart.
"No, of course not, Jimmie. It's for that old judge over there." She inclined her head in the direction of the old man. "Damn it all, Jimmie, you watch me like a hawk. Anybody'd think I was an alcoholic or something."
"It's not that I think you're an alcoholic, Gloria, it's just that you don't do as well when you've got a few drinks under your belt as when you're sober." He smiled again. "Everything all right?"
She nodded. "Yes, fine. One here, one before I arrived and an extra ten, as a kind of tip."
He gave her a brotherly pat on the shoulder.
As she was trying to get back to the Texas judge, Gloria's hands were shaking. Marline, who lived in the apartment across the hall from her, and also belonged to Jimmie's stable, gave her an appraising look. "You're white as a ghost."
"I saw somebody who reminded me of one of those men I told you about when I first came to New York," she lied. "It was just a resemblance, but-you know. It kind of got to me."
"You stick with Jimmie, Gloria. It don't set so hot with you to have to give him his take, but Jesus! Your tits are the only ones you've got."
Sometimes Gloria could still feel the excruciating pain in her left breast even though the doctor who sewed it up after the carve-job said it was fine. Shortly after she had started working the New York turf she found out about territory. The wound required seventeen stitches and her nipple still didn't look just right, since it tended to lop sideways. The doctor had done a good job, but the nipple had been almost completely severed. Yes, Marlene was right. Jimmie wasn't so bad, when she stopped to reconsider. He never hit any of his girls or anything like that unless he was living with them, and she'd already been initiated. What bothered her was the threat that he might do something to her if she tried to fuck him over.
A chill raced up and down Gloria's spine. But with her chin up and her ass swaying, her tits making little seductive bounces with each step, she headed toward the Texas judge who was eyeing her with a leer, the drink Marlene had left with him in his hand.
"How much you going to charge me to take care of me, doll?"
"I was thinking fifty," she said sweetly.
"Just to go down on me? I heard the going price was twenty-five at this party."
"But I was thinking fifty anyway. It doesn't hurt to dream a little, does it?"
Sighing, she sat down beside the old judge and hoped it wouldn't take forever and a day.
"You know, I'd have that big-assed nigger drawn and quartered if he came down to Kickingcreek County and tried that kind of a shennanigan with one of our gals," said Judge Waldecamp.
"Yes, well ... it's just part of the act," said Gloria. "Marlene doesn't mean anythinp personal."
The judge cleared his throat. "Looks pretty damn personal to me." He eyed his drink. "About as damn personal as she can get, the way she's rubbin' her snatch up against that big black prick. Wonder if she'd been back there in one of those rooms pumpin' him up before she brought me my drink? Goddam! Just thinkin' about it's enough to gag me."
"No, no," said Gloria. "Nobody has to pump Billy-Boy up. He stays hard all the time unless he just went off."
"How you know, gal? You ever fuck a nigger?"
"Oh, no, sir! I wouldn't dream of such a thing."
"Ever suck one of them big black pricks?" The judge looked angry enough to bite a nail in two. "Never sucked one of them lick'rish sticks, sure enough?"
"No, sir. I never did and I won't ever, either."
"Well, I sure-Lord wouldn't want to think you did, when you're gettin' ready to suck mine." He made another awful harrumping sound and brought a big glob of phlegm down into his mouth, where he wallowed it around, in his mouth while he talked. "You know, if I was a judge up here in New York, I'd clean house good and proper. We don't have any whores in my county. Don't have any performances like this taking place in a hotel room, either. Isn't there a law against people doin' these things in public here in New York City?"
"Yes, but-people seem to like to see-" She reached for his cock. Took it out of his pants and looked at it without enthusiasm. It was very long, but stringy and flabby, no bigger around than her thumb.
He gave her a grin and pinched her titty until it hurt. "Got me a big prick, all right. Bigger than that big black buck has got, once it gets good and hard." She looked into his eyes and saw that they were hard and glinted with meanness. Back underneath was something else, though. She thought it might be self-contempt.
On the makeshift stage, Marlene dry-fucked against Billy-Boy's lean and sinewy thighs. She was of average height, but Billy-Boy was over six and a half feet tall. The audience made sounds of approval except for a few who catcalled or booed. Gloria's old man made a disgusted sound down deep in his throat, but his cock hardened as Marlene humped faster against Billy-Boy.
Marlene jiggled and swayed. The tape began to play a mood piece with a lot of jungle drums. Billy-Boy picked her up and turned her around so her back faced him. Then he forced her to the floor of the stage, his eleven inches sticking straight out in front of him, appearing as big as a baseball bat. Except for an undertaker from around Kankakee, Illinois, that Gloria had met when she worked an Undertakers' Convention in Detroit, she'd never seen anyone hung like Billy-Boy. She often thought about the undertaker, who took out his billfold after she'd given him a blow job that almost strangled her, to show off his family pictures. His wife looked small and dainty, with light brown hair and a pale complexion. All the children had red hair like the undertaker, so she supposed they were his, and she'd asked him how he managed to have sex with his wife. He said he didn't put it all the way in.
Billy-Boy's long, artistic hands pulled Marlene's ass-cheeks apart. He grinned as he appeared to admire her anus. His cock looked bigger than ever when he shoved it under her pussy, slid it back and forth against her slit while she rode back and forth on it. The glans and at least five inches appeared and disappeared from between the front of Marlene's legs as he slid it back and forth.
"Fucking savage," muttered the Honorable Waldo Waldecamp. "He's not going to put that thing in her ass?" He said it because Billy-Boy had his massive dork in his hand and appeared to be aiming it at Marlene's rear end.
"No, that's just part of the act," said Gloria.
"It'd split her in two. No normal woman could accept that," said the judge. "She's not very big, either." Waldo was panting, and his cock was hard as a rock. Gloria bent down and took it in her mouth, trying not to notice the rancid smell that came from between the folds of his flesh. Under her fingers, and with the visual aid of Marlene and Billy-Boy, he'd reached full erection. Although his cock had appeared quite long when it was soft, it hadn't grown any bigger, except in circumference. Now it was as big around as two of Gloria's thumbs put together, maybe three inches long. She wondered a little at the oddities of nature and started skillfully manipulating his balls and cock, at the same time applying a growing pressure with her vacuum mouth.
"Bet that black son of a bitch doesn't have a bit of holding power," the Texan said nastily as Billy-Boy drove his tool deep within the quivering walls of Marlene's channel. "I'm a sixty-minute man, myself."
Gloria sighed. She hoped not. Out of the corner of her eyes she watched Marlene's pussy suck up every inch of Billy-Boy's outsized equipment, and appreciated the way the girl gave the impression that she'd just love to have a little more. There was something very beautiful about seeing black on white that way, especially with Marlene on her hands and knees. That happened to be Gloria's favorite position when she was fucking a man. It made her pussy twitch and a little juice came rushing out between her legs to watch it. Of course, what she really liked was to have a girl giving it to her that way, a girl with a dildo strapped on, but not a very big one. She adored feeling another woman's breasts so soft and lush against her back, went crazy with pleasure when a woman's hand worked over her clit, the other one pulling at her tits. But she could appreciate what was taking place up there because of the sheer animal lust and beauty.
Just then the old judge, the "sixty-minute man" who had said Billy-Boy wouldn't have any holding power, went off in her mouth.
Pleased, Gloria went about the business of appearing to swallow it right down with relish, but of course she never did. Instead she held it in her mouth until she could see a chance to spit it out in Kleenex. Usually she was able to get away with pretending she'd swallowed it. If there was anything that made her sick, it was a man's come.
The old gentleman paid without grumbling and gave her a five-dollar tip. She told him how much she appreciated having met him and excused herself. Then, after she'd gotten rid of his load on the sly, she turned to him, kissed his old leathery cheek and told him she'd just loved taking care of him, that some day she'd like to spend some time with him just for fun.
He flushed with pleasure while she walked slowly back toward the bedroom where Hobo was waiting.
PART TWO Political Conventions
CHAPTER FIVE
He spoke in a voice full of authority and wasted no time choosing his words: "You get a certain percentage of these Conventioneers, they wouldn't touch a hooker on a bet. Some bring their wives along and that kind of puts a damper on any fun and games a man might like to have with some strange cunt, and most of them wouldn't turn it down if they had a crack at it. But you know how some wives are. Won't let a man get a foot away from them. So you can more or less take it for granted that some of the men booked into a convention aren't going to need a hooker.
"Then some of them bring along the girl friend: Take this bald-headed man from Kentucky. Every year when he comes to the Florist's Convention, he's got a new chick on his arm. A real old guy, you wouldn't think he could get it up any more to look at him but he must be some kind of a swinger because the girls he brings along all are stunning, and they don't step out of line, either. Every year, and the florists have been coming here for five years, he checks in with a different woman and says she's his wife. I got to talking to him one time and he leveled with me. Said he has a wife, all right, and she's a good woman, a good mother to his children, and they've got eighteen grandchildren and two great-grandchildren, but once a year he liked to indulge himself. Those were his words, too. Indulge himself. I don't know where he finds those beautiful women he brings here, but he certainly has himself a good time.
"About a third of the Conventioneers can be depended on to want a hooker and they don't mind coming flat out and saying so. Those are the ones you see get off the plane and before they've picked up their luggage they're yelling and laughing and cavorting around, saying, 'bring on the girls.' Back home they might be respectable businessmen, but when they get away from home they turn into studs. Something happens to a lot of people when they get away from home. You take a little old housewife from Missouri. You wouldn't believe the things she does when she comes here to the hotel. Back in Missouri she's the President of the Garden Club, a church leader and sings in the choir-but here she really cuts loose. Drinks herself silly, screws a different man every night, throws money around, too. I'm just telling you that to prove my point. It's getting away from home that does it. So when you've got three thousand men coming here, you know you've got to have a thousand girls lined up to take care of the one-third who expect a woman when they attend a convention.
"Then you have to have around five hundred for the ones who aren't decided. They're the ones you see hanging back. They want a pretty little thing who will make them feel young again and important, and give them the kind of sex they don't get back home. But they aren't going to come right out and say so. Instead, they say to one another, 'I've never paid a woman for sex in my life, and I don't intend to start now.' Those are the men who like to feel attractive enough to pick a woman up on their own. We have little side arrangements to keep these men from losing face. We include the price of the whore in the check. A whole lot of fun gets paid for under the miscellaneous column."
The convention under discussion was national in scope and political. Since there are only two major parties in the United States it wouldn't be prudent to state Which one it was any more than where it was taking place. So I'll call it the Republicrats National Convention, and you can choose your year. Which brought up another point: women.
While florists arranged centerpieces and caterers started to arrive with the food, the man I spoke with attended to a number of details that had to do with making everything ready for the kick-off banquet. Little flags marched up and down the long tables. The speakers and special guests had a table that was slightly elevated. It faced the major portion of conventioneers. It was decorated with bunting and each place setting had a single rose in a bud vase as well as a miniature flag which served as a place card. The centerpiece was bigger and more lavish at that table, too.
A glance at the place cards affirmed my sudden (and shameful, from the point of view of a longtime believer in equal rights for all including women) realization that men might not be the only ones arriving who might require some special services. Strange, I thought as I listened to my informant get into a hassle with the head bartender, how early concepts continue to hang right in there in spite of intellectual enlightenment. All along, my concept of a smoke-filled room of politicians had included only men. It irritated me to awaken to the idea that I was still a victim of early conditioning. The world of my youth was male-dominated. Men were doctors, lawyers, dentists, truck drivers, construction workers, storeowners, executives and politicians. Women were wives, mothers, whores, nurses, beauticians, secretaries and worked for men. A woman doctor came to town when I was about ten and moved away before I was eleven, because nobody was willing to believe a woman was capable of practicing medicine. A male prototype still leaps to mind when I think of the traditionally male-dominated professions, though I keep fighting it. So I determined to ask about arrangements being made for the sexual pleasure of the female politicians.
The convention manager finished the heated discussion with the head bartender. By then the place had taken on the aura of a true banquet complete with the heady fragrance of roses and carnations and the rush-rush-rush of waitresses and waiters attending to last minute details. Ice tinkled as water glasses were filled. A few early arrivals came in and hung back, glancing around at the banquet tables, shuffling their feet and looking important. They wore nametags that included their state, county and particular political office. A dumpy looking little woman from one of the eastern seaboard states clumped around in a pair of wedgies that squeaked every time she took a step. She wore a mink stole, a stiff, fresh-from-the-beauty-salon hairdo and a determined look. Her name tag said she was the County Chairperson from a town I'll call Zilch, in Whopping County, Maine. Her voice was rather shrill as she spoke to her companion, a greying blonde from Montana. "I hope the food doesn't give me indigestion. As much as it costs, it certainly does look like they could see to it that it tastes good." Her eyes, however, were not on the tables. Instead, they were locked hotly on a young, creamy-skinned busboy who looked as if he belonged on a motion picture set. As she spoke she made a vague gesture toward her groin, probably unconsciously.
The Montana woman was a delegate. I couldn't hear what she said, but her attitude was not like her companion's. She looked all around as she spoke, apparently more interested in the political aspects of the convention than anything else. The two women parted company when they found that the seating arrangements didn't place them together. A rather vague expression of relief was in the Montana woman's eyes as she headed toward her own group.
A number of other people began to fill the convention hall. There was a lot of laughter and talking. While the handsome young busboy made the rounds of the tables with coffee, the dumpy looking little woman from Maine continued to cast meaningful glances in his direction. Before long she managed to get herself situated in between a couple of tables where the young boy was forced either to look directly at her or turn and walk down the aisle with his back to her. He chose the latter, and his face reflected confusion. She put a commanding hand on his shoulder and her voice was full of authority when she said, "Just a second, please."
Turning, the boy looked down at her with an uncertain but polite smile. "Yes, ma'am?"
She turned coy as she moved in on him, her breasts appearing to jiggle, the upper portion of her body making amorous movements as she almost, but not quite, made body contact. The words she spoke were lost in the general hubbub, but it was apparent that she'd said something that took the boy by surprise. His cheeks turned red and his head snapped back. Her face took on a cunning, persuasive look and her hands patted the purse she carried. The boy continued to look taken aback for a second or two, then his big brown expressive eyes widened as he nodded. From across the room I could see what she wrote on the piece of paper she took out of her purse. It was her room number.
Carlos: "When I got this job as busboy I considered myself very lucky, because this hotel is one of the finest on the strip, and I had heard that there is a chance for advancement. You see, I go to the University and if I did not find employment I would have been forced to go back to Mexico for the summer. The first two years I lived here in the United States I worked in a hospital, but as time goes on I require more money to get by.
"I consider myself lucky to have this position, but, you see, I come from a very religious family and in the beginning I was not able to understand exactly what was expected of me regarding women, and when I did understand, I didn't really believe it.
"Please do not misunderstand. I knew of sex, for I am a normal man, and all normal men have these drives. Also, I learned to speak English when I was a very young child, perhaps the year before I went to school. Nevertheless, I was not in complete understanding about the women customers, because even though I speak English fluently, I am not aware of all the slang words or expressions. It was my impression that I was to service these women only in the area of taking care of their coffee or tea, making sure there were plenty of hot rolls and butter on the table, that kind of thing. A regular busboy's job, you understand. It did seem to me that the amount of money I would be paid by each individual I serviced was a lot for such menial tasks. At the same time, in my country we are brought up to believe that most North American women are exceedingly rich and throw their money around carelessly. I also grew up believing that American women are without morals, at least for the most part. But after I came to this country I learned that much of what I believed about North American women was a myth. Girls here are very much like girls in Mexico. Some of them allow sexual privileges, others do not.
"Now we come to this woman, this Anna. I saw her looking at me from across the room that day of the Republicrat Convention, which was my very dirst day on the job. More than once our glances met, but as far as I knew it was merely coincidence. Then, there between the tables, I could see that I would have to walk around her if I were to continue going in the direction in which I started. And so it was that I turned around, for I did not wish to inconvenience a customer of the hotel. It surprised me very much when she put her hand on my shoulder, but when she spoke I did not know how to answer. She said, 'Are you available, honey?'
"'Yes. Of course,' I said, still thinking she meant available for some kind of service I was not as yet familiar with.
"Then she said back to me, 'If you are half as good as you look, you'll be worth every dollar. Do you like to eat cunt?'
"I wanted to run away from her, for even though I did not understand what Mr. Johnny said to me in the full context, I certainly did know what the word 'cunt' meant.
"To be quite honest, I had never been terribly interested in going down on a girl. Once I tried it with a very fast and loose girl at home, but the smell made me turn my head away, and even though she kept insisting that I do it, I could not bring myself to. You must remember that I went to church every Sunday with my parents and younger brothers and sisters, and confession is part of my religious belief. To put one's tongue on the parts of a woman that are covered and secret is a sin, for it is an unnatural act. I do not know how I answered Anna, but whatever I said must have led her to believe that I-indulge in relations with my own sex. She laughed and said she would soon get me over that kind of thing, or something of that nature. And then she said she would give me one hundred dollars if I spent the night with her. For that kind of money I would have spent the night with the devil."
* * *
Anna: "Rufus, that's my husband, was spoiled rotten by his mother. She taught him he was better than anybody else and deserved everything he wanted. Then he was blessed with a handsome face and a talent on the football field, as well as good grades, so he was the darling of Marling High School when I met him. And I mean darling, too. Everyone adored him, students and teachers alike.
"When we moved to Marling I was a sophomore and Rufus was a senior. I was about the cutest little thing you ever saw back in 1940, and it didn't take Rufus very long to see that. He was irresistible, and besides that, I knew all the other girls in school were wild about him, so it'd be a feather in my cap if I started going with him. We made out in the back seat on our very first date. I was a virgin, but I was pretty disappointed. He went off like a jackrabbit. It didn't hurt much, but it didn't feel very good, either. I remember wondering what the hell made sex so great if that was all there was to it. But I always read a lot, and back in those days women had to toady to men. It was the way things were. So I pretended I went off, too. You know, did a lot of moaning and groaning because I knew it was expected of me. Maybe I was being careful about Rufus' ego in, a way-but mostly I think I was making sure I did my best to keep him. You know, make him think he was Mr. Super-Stud himself.
"That sort of set the pattern for our future. Rufus considered me an easy lay, but he considered all the girls he ever went with easy lays, because they were. Maybe I was the best actress, hell, I don't know why he kept hanging around and taking me out. We didn't really go much of anyplace because he didn't have a lot of money to throw around on dates, but it was worth the price I had to pay to keep him. I mean, it wasn't any big thing for me to screw him and pretend I adored it. That is, it didn't hurt me any until I got pregnant. Then I was scared to death.
"By then I was a junior and Rufus was in college. He lived at home, though. If I had it to do all over again, I'd never marry him, but in 1941 girls who got in trouble got married. My son was four years old and my daughter two before I ever got any good out of sex, and then it wasn't with Rufus. He just never was any good in the sack, and that's all there is to it, but we stayed together and raised our family, and he did well in his business. Looking back, it was as much my fault as Rufus' that he didn't make me come. I started out. wrong with him in the first place by pretending it was so great when it was never anything but a chore. After you've been pretending for such a long time, it's not easy to come out and tell your husband you've been lying all those years-just putting on a show. So I kept seeing the man down the street on the sly. His wife was frigid. At least that was what he said. I bet Rufus told his girl friends his wife was frigid, too, because I used every excuse I could think of not to screw him. Of course, I didn't know my husband had girl friends for a long time. Didn't suspect a thing until he brought me home a dose of clap after he'd been to a convention in New York City. But I didn't throw a fit or anything because, after all, I hadn't exactly been true myself. But I did know George didn't have the clap, so I knew who gave it to me.
"After that, Rufus couldn't get it up any more. We stayed together, and we're good friends. I wouldn't get a divorce if you paid me to. Maybe I love my husband, in a way. I know I would be heartbroken if he died. George died a few years ago and that nearly killed me. We'd been carrying on in secret and getting away with it for years, and I loved him, too. I'm a very loving woman.
"Getting used to not having any sex was one thing I couldn't do. With George it was wonderful. Just think, I'd never had anyone but those two men. One was no good and the other great. Well, after George died, I took a good look at myself and realized I couldn't attract men the way I did when I was young and small and cute. My middle had thickened and my face was sagging, and well ... I just didn't have what it took any more. I even tried to help Rufus get over his impotence again. Not that I didn't try very hard when it first came on him, but nothing helped. Rufus was about as inhibited as a man can get. George was a real lover. He had a lot of Latin in him, and making love came pretty much second nature to him, I guess. At least that was the way we got started, and I just adored it. But when I tried to suck Rufus' cock for him he had a terrible fit, and his opinion of men who go down on women is pretty bad. So I didn't try that again after George died, but I tried everything else.
"Well, anyway, I just couldn't get along without sex. Tried doing it for myself, but after almost thirty years of the very best sex with a man, masturbation was a poor substitute. I even went out and bought some dildos, and if you can believe it, I tried it with another woman. Everyone in town knew Frankie-(her real name is Frances, but she likes Frankie best because it sounds more masculine). We all knew she was a dyke and it wasn't any problem for me to get next to her. I just couldn't hack it.
"Don't get the idea that I'm a prude. I don't have a thing against homosexuality. Oh, when I was young, I thought men who did it with other men and women who did it with other women were terrible, but we all thought so. Now I can see it. It's a personal preference, and that's all there is to it. I like a man's arms around me. I like the so-lidness of a man. Oh, well, that's getting off the subject.
"A friend of mine got me interested in politics. She's always been very big in the party, and with the children married and gone I decided to get involved, mainly because maybe if I took up an active interest in something, I might forget about that continual ache and emptiness in my body.
"Back home I would never get away with paying a man to take care of me, but once I learned how men politicians take on hookers, I decided I was just as good as any man, and I truly believe I have every right a man has.
"Carlos isn't the first boy I've purchased for the night and he won't be the last. But once I got him over his inhibitions, I'll tell you this much: He's about the best."
* * *
Later, I put their interesting incident together from what they told me.
When he went to her room after the speeches were all over and the big banquet room was no longer in the need of the services of a busboy, he was having doubts. His mind was ready to accept the hundred dollars but his instincts were repelled at the idea of making love to a woman as old as Anna appeared. The room was 1131. He walked past it three times before he could make himself knock.
"She opened the door right away, and she was naked. I was shocked. There wasn't going to be any playing around with this woman. By her attitude, I felt she didn't even care if she got a kiss.
"Actually she looked better without any clothes on than when she was dressed. Her body was not as heavy as I had thought. She was built solidly and for some reason or other her waistline appeared more-how do you say it-supple. And her legs looked much longer. They were rather delicate looking, those legs, and perfectly shaped. And she had washed the makeup off her face, which made her look softer and younger. Strange. I would think an older woman would look better with the face inade up, but in her case, it seemed to accentuate the lines and wrinkles when it was on. And she smelled lovely, something like jasmine, but not as strong.
"She was trembling and I could see right away that she needed me. Right away, her hand went to my cock and, although I wasn't sure she would be able to make it hard, I had no trouble. Somehow, the young girls I wanted faded away from my mind when I was with this healthy, frank, very aroused woman. She tore away my clothes as she led me to the bed and she was panting ever so slightly. I don't mean that she ripped them, but it gave me the impression that she would, almost any minute. Her hand began to milk up and down on my cock and my senses grew steamy hot. Her breasts were nice. They sagged somewhat, but they didn't hang down as I had expected them to, considering her age. There was no mark on her skin to show that she had worn a bra when dressed, and those breasts were very sensitive to my touch. The nipples hardened immediately, and they grew even harder when my thumb and finger began to rotate them. She moaned with pleasure and trembled harder. 'Oh, fuck me hard. I can't stand to wait any longer!'
"Her eyes were all rolled up in the back of her head and the breath was coming fast and hot from her mouth. I asked her if she wanted me to mount her on top and she screamed that she did, to hurry. At that time, she was on her back, crosswise on the bed. I remember wanting to get her head on the pillow but she was in such a state of urgency that I...."
Anna: "I was going out of my mind. All during the banquet and those ridiculous after-dinner speeches I kept looking at him and the crotch of my panties was as wet as water. I kept dripping and the longer I waited the hotter I got. I thought I'd die with need.
"It's doubtful if I heard any of the speeches. Through my mind rushed this delectable scene of the way it would be between this handsome young man, and me. Other pictures flowed through my brain, too, that made me, even wilder with desire. I'd think about George and the way he used to suck on my clit. He had a way of running his tongue round and round on it that sent me right into multiple orgasms. Once I came sixteen times while George was eating me out, then I fainted and scared poor George half out of his mind.
There's no explaining the passion I had for this boy whose name I didn't even know-not until afterwards. In a way, I think he reminded me of George with all that dark hair and his fantastic skin. The way he walked, too.
"As cocks go, Carlos didn't have a big one. Maybe it was a six-incher. But he was kind and interested, and I'm no fool, you know. I could see in his eyes that he was repelled at the idea of screwing me when I first talked to him. He's too young to be a good pretender, and I think I probably shocked him, too. The thing is, I was pretty sure there were men around for the purpose of screwing the women at the convention. There always are. And when I saw him, I guess I just took it for granted that he was one of them. It wasn't until he came into the room that I realized I had a novice. But getting back to it, to the way he behaved, I mean, I could tell that when he saw me in the nude he liked what he saw.
"Oh, that delicious, delightful, darling prick of his! I was so slick and so hot. It slid right in, but it felt big and full of life. I went utterly wild, but he stayed right in there and I went off within a couple of minutes."
Carlos: "It was so different with her. Refreshing. The young women don't respond that way. If they do feel anything, I think they might be too reserved to admit it. The way Anna was with me made me sure of myself. She wrapped her legs around my back and locked her feet together at the ankles. I looked in the mirror once to see how she managed that. There was a mirror above the dresser and it was tilted at an angle to show almost the entire bed with us on it. I couldn't help going into her hard and fast because she set the pace and it was clear to me that she wanted to be fucked as violently as I could fuck her. When she came her pussy sucked and gobbled on my cock. It was like nothing I've ever experienced before, but then of course, I hadn't been with a lot of women at that time. Still, I've never felt another woman contract on me the way Anna did. And I could feel her come, too. Suddenly it rolled all around the head of my pulsating cock and I felt drenched in it.
"After that, she calmed down and took time out to kiss and caress. It was a beautiful experience, something I shall never forget. And I will always be grateful for it."
They bathed together. The hotel was equipped with sumptuous bathrooms and the tub was a square one. They worked up a lot of lather and sudsed one another all over their bodies, but before they were finished rinsing, Anna had Carlos' cock in her mouth.
"Young men are far superior to older ones," she said in fond and slightly wistful memory. "Such smooth, taut skin. Such stamina. Do you know, Carlos was ready to fuck again within fifteen minutes!"
She said they fucked missionary-position the next time around. Then they slept for a while. "But half an hour later, Carlos' cock was hard again. He'd remained where he was, on top of me, and with his cock still in. What a heavenly thing it was to wake up with his magnificent cock inside me, lurching and growing bigger. We went on and on and on, all night long, and I think we tried it every way we'd ever heard of or read about, every position we could think of."
I asked her how she felt about giving money to a man. She smiled. "At first ... I mean, the very first time I handed money to a man I felt depressed. We're brought up to believe women are giving in to a man, you know. At least my generation felt that way. It's as if we're doing the man a favor and he owes us. Women, I mean. I think most people still feel that way down deep in their guts, because it's been customary for the woman to be passive for so long. Women have to wait for a man to ask them for a date. At least they did in my day. I think young people with their more open attitude toward sex have a better understanding of themselves; but even in the younger generation you'll find a lot of girls still playing that waiting game. They hang on to their virginity because they're taught they must. Nobody comes right out and tells a young girl to keep her cherry because it's the most marketable asset she has, but the idea is still part of our culture. A man offers to marry a woman and take care of her in exchange for steady sex, and some men still expect to get a virgin. A lot of women are taught right from the cradle that if they get out and screw around, they're going to be ruined. Well, I felt that way myself. You know, after Rufus and I screwed that first time, I was spoiled merchandise. I remember my mother telling me nobody wants to buy a cake from the bakery that has a slice taken out of it already. She used that gem in one of her little talks with me when I was very young.
"That long, long affair I had with George was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. He was very important to me, and he didn't feel that I was somebody else's property. What I'm trying to say is that he gave me a sense of worth when he gave me his love. Probably, if it hadn't been for George, I would never have been able to go out and shop around for a man in these later years.
"But to answer your question-I did find it very hard to pay a man the first time I did it. Of course by the time I met Carlos I was accustomed to it. It dawned on me one day that I'd been mouthing all those things about equality of the sexes, but I didn't really believe them because of my background. At about the same time, I admitted to myself that I would probably feel less awkward if the situation were reversed ... that is, if I were in the position of accepting money in exchange for sex. Somehow, that angered me, so after a while I changed my whole concept of the way things are between men and women. I just took a good look at myself in the mirror and I said, 'Anna, damn it to hell, you have just as much right to sex as a man, so just stop feeling that way.' After a while I was able to peel off a bunch of bills to pay for sex with as much unconcern as I did when I paid for, say, a pair of shoes.
Carlos: "Anna will always remain one of my fondest memories. She was a loving woman with great warmth, and she taught me so many things about sex that I hadn't even dreamed of. But when I marry and have children, I sincerely hope that my daughters will remain virtuous until they marry. And I believe I will be very upset if I become wed to a woman and find out later that she's been with another man."
CHAPTER SIX
Juliette works alone.
She's a stunning brunette with a flawless ivory complexion, expressive hazel eyes, a soft, vulnerable-looking mouth, and a perfect size seven figure. From a good family in the state of Washington, Juliette left home when she was fifteen and went to San Francisco, where she became involved in the drug culture. She lived in the Haight-Ashbury district when it was still a reasonably safe place to live, before the underworld moved in and took over. At eighteen, Juliette had slept with three or four hundred different men and women, she says, and sex was no longer even vaguely interesting to her. She met an older man, a construction worker, who asked her to get married. She said she didn't have anything else to do at the time and she kind of liked the guy.
"He was sweet, but awfully square, and little by little he found out that I wasn't what he considered wife material. You know the bit-he wanted me to settle down and have two or three children, take care of a house, join social organizations. Well, I didn't want to live out my life in misery the way my mother did. My folks weren't happy, they just stayed together because of their religion and because they felt responsible for me and my brother. They finally got a legal separation, but of course they blamed it on me, because I dropped out of high school and disappeared. My brother did all the things they wanted him to. He was four years older than me. He went into the service even though he really wanted to stay out of it. We were pretty close, you know. But my parents kept ding-donging at him about what people would think and my dad was really uptight. Gung-ho for America, right or wrong, that sort of thing. My brother let himself get drafted and he was killed in Viet Nam. To this day, even though my folks don't even speak to each other any more, they both feel proud of my brother and insist that he did the right thing by going to Nam and getting killed. Well-they aren't proud of me, but I don't feel guilty about any of the things I've done."
When Juliette and her construction worker husband divorced, she left La Jolla, where they lived together in a neat little bungalow, took the money he gave her for the divorce, and went to Reno.
"I got a job as a cocktail waitress but lost it after the manager found out I wasn't twenty-one. At the time, I didn't know how to go about getting fake I.D.'s. But in the three days I worked as a cocktail waitress I made enough contacts to live well, which is the way I like it. A girl has to be very careful in Reno, though. At the time I was there, hooking was a dangerous occupation. The fuzz, you know. Still, I was able to make enough to pay my way to Vegas. Perry told me there's a lot more money floating around there for a girl like me."
Perry acted as Juliette's procurer during her Reno days. He was a small-time hanger-on around the vice industry. "Actually," said Juliette, "Perry was more hot air than anything else. He said he had all those contacts, but I think most of his contacts were wishful thinking."
At this writing, Perry is back in the Nevada State Prison, his third trip there since the late 1960's. "But Perry did steer me in the right direction, I mean to Las Vegas. I decided to go it alone after he was picked up in Washoe County, mostly because I can't see paying a pimp to make contacts for me. It's a lot safer to work with somebody, but I play it pretty cool. I have a regular nine-to-five job in an office and never bring a trick to my apartment. Lately, I've been working nothing but conventions and I command a high price."
Before Juliette's reputation became good enough to let her wait for the telephone to ring, she went about the business of meeting her clients in a difficult as well as dangerous way. At this writing she never works the streets, never takes a chance on getting arrested for soliciting. "Because I've never been in jail and I don't intend to do anything to get me there. But I took all kinds of chances in the beginning, chances that make me shudder when I think about them now."
For the past few years, Juliette has lived what she considers the good life. She awakened one night out of a drug-induced stupor and decided to get off drugs. "People will tell you it's impossible to break the habit without professional help, and I'm sure some people can't go it on their own. But I did, and I'm sure I'm not the only person who ever did it the hard way. I took a good look at myself that night and realized I'd be dead within ten years if I didn't do something quickly."
It took her four weeks. "It was hell," she said with conviction. "Plain old unmitigated hell."
She said she depended on word-of-mouth advertising as well as repeat business in her avocation. Shortly after she arrived in Las Vegas she took a business course so she could support herself in case hooking didn't work out. For the past six or eight months, Juliette has been branching out, and she's seriously considering giving up her office job. With a vivid smile, she explained, "I've worked myself into a position where I'm not able to handle all the men who call me. So I've contacted two other girls to fill in for me. They're gorgeous girls, and intelligent too. Quality, if you know what I mean." She laughed. "I never thought I'd be a madam, but in a way I guess you could say I am one now. But so far, I've never taken a percentage from the girls who fill in for me. I know I probably should, but I just haven't wanted to."
Juliette is an avid reader of the two Las Vegas newspapers. She knows when and where a convention is going to be held. "This is really the town for a girl who specializes in conventions, because there are always several. Some of them I wouldn't touch on a bet. I command top money for my services, and a lot of the men who come to conventions expect to get a high quality girl for as little as twenty-five dollars."
Her favorite conventions are political ones. The ones she likes least of all are the American Legion and morticians. "Because the men who belong to the American Legion are chintzy, and say things that rub me the wrong way. For instance, most of them would like to see the country get involved in another war, and they're hard-nosed about people I like and respect. I mean, men who were conscientious objectors during the Viet Nam thing and had the courage of their convictions either to go to jail or leave the country to keep out of that sad and unnecessary war. Legionnaires insist that the C.O.'s were all cowards, which I know isn't true. Naturally, there were some men who didn't go to Viet Nam because they were afraid. Historically, there always have been. But I feel that the honest conscientious objectors were far more courageous than those who went because they felt they had to. A lot of my friends objected to the war in Viet Nam, and didn't go. Believe me, it takes a lot more guts to stand up for what you believe in and go through all the miseries of it, than simply to follow along like sheep. So I no longer have anything to do with the American Legion men.
"Morticians are all right. It's a personal thing with me that causes me to steer clear of their conventions. I just can't get it on with a man who makes his living taking care of dead people. I'm sure it's my own little hangup, though, and I know very well somebody has to take care of the dead. It's just that I get to thinking about-well, the things they do like applying cosmetics, patching up missing places in faces and that sort of thing-and sometimes I could swear I smell embalming fluid, even though I know that's impossible. After all, they don't practice their trade when they come here to a convention. I think it's just that, well, I like to give a man what he needs. Call it my own special brand of integrity if you like. But I can't come on to a man with the kind of warmth he expects when my mind is all cluttered up with unsavory thoughts about how he makes his living."
Now twenty-seven, Juliette is able to look back on the past with a smile. "The chances I took! And some of the things I was forced to do! Now it seems funny, but back then I was running scared most of the time, and I was lucky to come through it unscathed. Or at least without any more problems than I did encounter."
She was afraid to hang around the hotels and look available. "That's because prostitution was illegal in Clark County. Still is. I didn't want to get picked up for soliciting, so I developed what I thought was a unique way of making marks. Later I found out my method is as old as hooking itself. Women did it back before there were automobiles.
"Thing is, there's always a transportation problem around convention centers. In Vegas, there are plenty of taxis, but it is a busy, bustling city and has been ever since before I was here. Taxi drivers go where the most action is, and the men who come for conventions would rather spend their money on girls or at the casinos than on taxi fare, so a lot of them are pretty chintzy when it comes to tipping a cab driver. So the men come pouring out of the convention centers in a hurry to get someplace and can't find a cab. They wait and wait. So I waited, too, pretended to be waiting for a cab, and pretty soon a man would notice me. We struck up a conversation, something easy for a woman to do when there's a crowd of men, all of them horny and expecting something to happen just because they're away from home.
"I never came right out and offered my services. If a prospective client didn't come on to me, that is, if he didn't ask me to go somewhere and have a drink, or go to dinner with him or something like that, I just moved away and talked to someone else. Usually, though, the first dude I talked to would show some interest in going somewhere and doing something.
"Even then, I still didn't mention anything about money, because it wasn't possible to look at a man and tell whether he was a plainclothesman working for the vice squad, or a genuine conventioneer looking for a whore. Oh, I know a lot of girls will tell you they can smell a cop a mile away. Maybe some of them can, but I wasn't blessed with that kind of second sight. No, I would always wait until afterwards. Until that moment of truth, I kept perfectly quiet about payment. It was taking a chance, and sometimes I didn't get my fee, but I usually did. One man told me he'd been cleaned out at the tables. Well, we'd had an expensive dinner with champagne, and I saw the size of the tip he left for the waiter, which was a big one. I didn't believe him, but back in those days I was too scared to insist. Now I don't have to insist, because no man calls me who isn't willing to pay what I expect for my services."
On two different occasions, Juliette was slapped around. "It happened the same way with both those men. I allowed myself to be picked up at the taxi stand, and from there we went to a place on the strip where we had a delicious meal and took in a show. Then we went to the hotel where the mark was staying. After we balled-and I never short-change a client-I mentioned my fee. They both reacted in the same way, said they'd thought I just wanted a good time. I said I did want a good time, but that included being paid for my services. Of course, I didn't say the exact same thing to both these tricks, and they didn't say exactly the same thing to me, but they were both very angry when they found out they'd taken a prostitute to dinner. One slapped me the other one knocked me down. For six weeks after I got knocked down I had a big nasty lump on my jaw, but I took what I felt I had coming from that one. The one who slapped me didn't have any money. Not cash. He used traveler's checks, and I couldn't make him give me any of those. But I've always felt very good about the way I handled myself with the man who knocked me down.
"My whole face hurt so much that tears came to my eyes. At first I thought maybe my jawbone was broken, but I just picked myself up off the floor and walked calmly over to where the bastard had left his billfold on the dressing table. I extracted two fifty-dollar bills, grabbed my clothes and got out of there. He was still naked too, and I guess he didn't have the guts to come after me. I honestly think he was under the impression that I would leave quietly after he hit me, but he had another thought coming."
Juliette laughed. "I'll never forget the startled look on the faces of the women who were in the hall when I came bolting out of the hotel room without a stitch of clothes on. There weren't any men in the hall, just women. I think they were attending some convention of their own. They all opened their mouths and pointed to me, and some of them screamed. You'd have thought they were looking at a naked man instead of a naked woman. I thought it was funny then, and I still do."
During the years, Juliette has developed a specialty and she commands double her usual fee of a hundred dollars for what she refers to as "special services."
"I learned about it by accident. Something happened to me somewhere along the line that caused me to lose interest in sex. I don't mean I wasn't interested in using my body for the purpose of making money, but even though I make each man feel he's very capable and a wonderful lay who makes me excited, I never come at all except when I get myself off. I've been to psychiatrists and psychologists, because nobody wants to believe they're not normal. But you know, I've come to the conclusion that those mind doctors know a lot less than they pretend to, and most of them are just shooting in the dark. They said I was narcissistic. At first that upset me terribly, but after a while I decided maybe being in love with myself is normal for me.
"But you asked about my specialty. Two years ago one of my regulars came to town, and called to set up an appointment at his hotel. He's an especially nice person. Married, of course, like most of my clients are. I met him originally at a florists' convention, and he's been coming back at least once a year since that first time. We always get together. Well, anyway, he said he had a meeting and might be late, so could he send over a key to his room. I said fine, and pretty soon the key was delivered by a cab driver.
"Well, I arrived at his hotel room, and I don't know, once in a while something comes over me and I can't rest until I've made myself come. When I want sex I have to have it, and don't tell me I should have waited until my trick came, because I've found through experience that I'm not nearly as pleasing to my customers when I'm hot. They don't satisfy me, and I reach a point when I have to have release from some of the tension that builds up in me, so I take matters into my own hands, so to speak.
"His name is Don, and as I said before, he's a very nice man. A year or more ago he developed a sexual problem of his own. I suggested, when he told me about it, that he visit one of the sex clinics because there he was, a man who just simply adored sex, and he couldn't get a hard-on. That's a very sad thing to happen to a man at any stage of his life, but at forty it's terribly depressing. Even though he didn't get the normal satisfaction out of being with me, he still wanted me, which I took as a compliment. Later he came back and said he'd spent a good deal of time and a lot of money at a sex clinic, but he still had his problem. Still, he loved to caress me and kiss me and hold me in his arms, and he's always been a man who loves to eat pussy, so I could see why he still wanted to spend some time with me.
"All right, there I was, needing to get myself off in the worst possible way. I thought there was plenty of time in which to do it because Don had said he'd be late. So I took my time about it. I stripped down and walked around in the hotel room. Nothing turns me on more than to be all alone and utterly naked. All I have to do is walk around in the buff, and I get all excited. So I did that, then I went into the bathroom and took a long, luxurious bath. Then I stepped out of the tub and toweled myself off, all the time admiring myself in the full-length mirrors in the bathroom, which makes me even hotter.
"After that, I walked into the room and sat down in a chair, where I could see myself in the mirror above the dresser. As you can see, my breasts are huge, and I adore lifting them to my mouth and sucking them. Oh, those psychiatrists really had a field day when I told them I liked to do that, but I honestly feel I'm a well-balanced woman.
"So I was sitting there in the chair with one hand holding a breast up to my mouth, sucking away, the other one working around my clit, when Don walked in. I'll confess that I felt a little self-conscious at first, because I was wide open with my legs apart, knees draped over the arms of the chair. But I was damned if I was going to stop at the time, because I was almost to orgasm and felt too good to quit then. So I smiled at Don around the nipple of my left breast and kept right on massaging my clit and sucking my tit. One finger was inside my cunt and my thumb was whipping away at my clit. The whole scene was like something out of a magazine.
"Wonder of wonders! Don took one look at me in all my naked, heated, sucking, finger-fucking glory and got an instant erection, his first in over two years. He just stood there in front of me with his pants down around his ankles and his prick sticking straight out there while I fingered myself frantically and kept right on sucking. I was pleased as punch. Needless to say, so was Don.
"Well, after that, we balled. Right there in the chair. He just lifted me up and set me down on that mammoth cock of his and I sank down on it and he kept his erection all the way to orgasm.
"At first we thought maybe what had happened was just a sometime thing. You know, something that happens once in a while, or once, period. But no matter what I did to him, sucking, licking, I stroked his balls and worked over his cock, nothing! But the very second he saw me sucking my own tit and playing with myself, he got as hard as a rock."
Apparently Don went back home and told other men about the wonderful thing that had happened to him. "Right away, I began getting telephone calls from men who wanted to get turned on with my special kind of therapy. They all said the same thing-that Don had told them about me. I had no idea so many men were walking around unable to get a hard-on!"
About two of Juliette's tricks a week consist of men who especially enjoy watching her perform her specialty. But most of her clients are those who attend the conventions. She said, "I'm going to attend a big political convention tomorrow. I think I can get you an invitation if you'd like. Would you?"
I said yes, I'd be delighted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a regional political convention, which meant only certain states were represented, and Juliette didn't tell me we would fly in a private plane to get there until she came by the Las Vegas hotel where I was staying to take me to the private airport. She said, "You have to promise not to tell where we go and not to say anything derogatory about any of the people who attend the convention. I mean, sure, they're here for a political convention. They'll get the job done that they've set out to do, but they're entitled to a little fun while they're at it."
I promised, and away we went. Juliette drives a bright pink Cadillac, with bright pink leather seats and thickly piled floor mats of baby blue. The passengers included six hookers, a little old man with a bald head, and me.
Juliette introduced me when we were airborne. "This is Ellen Evans, a writer. Right now she's doing a book about conventions and the girls who work them."
A dark haired girl who was slightly on the plump side nodded. "I've read some of your books. And I know a person you wrote a whole book about, too. She told me about it, and later on I got a chance to read it. You certainly did a good job of covering her true identity." She was Rhoda, originally from Ohio.
Barbara was a tall, willowy blonde with sad grey eyes. Juliette told me afterwards that three months previously Barbara had had an abortion she'd not wanted. She was new to the oldest profession, and her husband hadn't wanted the child.
Vivacious, red-haired Elaine was about thirty and politically oriented herself. She looked forward to the convention with zest. Elaine was attractive, but not in the usual way, mostly because of her extremely thin build and gauntness of features. Juliette told me Elaine dieted constantly in order to maintain that starved look, and the Johns went wild over her. "On the other hand, Rhoda makes fabulous money, and she's almost what you might call fat. I guess there's no accounting for tastes."
Whether Iris was the fifth girl's actual given name or not, it suited her. She had eyes exactly the color of those big hybrid irises that to me, at least, are far more appealing than any orchid, and her soft, light brown hair was glorious. She was of medium height, had a dusting of pale golden freckles across her nose, and was intelligent.
Serena was an exotic girl of mixed ancestry that must have included a portion of American Indian, black and possibly French or Spanish. She had enormous eyes the color of ripe olives, wore her hair in an afro, and always dressed in stark white. Her only jewelry was rings, and she had at least one on each finger and thumb, two or three on many. She said she was born in Rhodesia, and her accent was charming.
All of these girls were full-time prostitutes except Juliette, who worked in an office as mentioned earlier, and Serena, who speaks seven languages fluently. She's an interpreter and works for the government. I learned that Serena, like Juliette, confines her hooking activities to conventions. She said she can take two or three days off at a time if she doesn't take her vacations. With her huge eyes full of mystery, she explained that she especially liked working the conventions, because in that way she met a lot of different kinds of people. "And I adore people. One of these days, I want to write my memoirs, so I feel I must learn as much about the way folks behave in all walks of life as I possibly can, for I want to truly understand everybody."
Although all the girls except Serena had been married at least once and divorced, they were all single at the moment except Barbara, who said she would never divorce her husband, even though he made her miserable. Barbara was the only one who wanted to talk about her past, and as I made notes, I saw that fascinating Serena was listening intently.
Barbara was born in a small town in the midwest, made excellent grades throughout school and was graduated from a well-known midwestern university at the top of her class. The older of two children, she said she'd always felt driven to excel at anything she attempted. Her younger brother is already a millionaire, and he's under thirty.
Barbara met her husband when she was teaching English in an elementary school in Texas. It was a whirlwind courtship of less than a week. Then they were married.
"Then I learned that Gregg had lied to me about his background. He's mixed up in a lot of illegal activities, prostitution among them. He wanted me to get into it. I was crushed, but after a while I said I would, because I couldn't bear losing him."
"I would kill him," said Serena.
"But I love him," Barbara answered.
"How can you keep loving a man who doesn't care any more about you than he does?" Serena turned to me. "He turns her into a whore." (Serena pronounced it 'hoor.') "He beats her until she is black and blue and he makes her get rid of the baby she wanted. I personally think this is a sick kind of love, maybe no love at all. It's my understanding that if a woman or man loves someone, they must also respect them. Obviously, your Gregg has no respect for you, and cares nothing about your wishes."
"But if I left him, I would die. Or if he left me."
Serena nodded. "Maybe you would." Then she thought for a while. "But maybe you wouldn't, Barbara. It is my guess that you would go right out and immediately find someone else to love. And you can only love someone who degrades you. Why do you think so little of yourself, anyway? You're beautiful, you're intelligent, and you certainly have a lot of love to give."
I wondered the same thing, but I've learned to stop trying to change people around to suit my ideas about how people should behave. Later, through Dell, who was the little old bald-headed man on the plane, I learned more about Barbara.
Dell said he was part of the entertainment committee for the political convention. He said that he'd known Barbara since shortly after her marriage. Dell's voice was gravelly and he tended to growl when he spoke. "She's not happy unless she's miserable. I've seen her when she should have been right on top of the world, without a worry or a hassle of any kind. She'll tell you her husband wanted her to go into the hooking business, but she hounded him until he finally gave in. I know, because I was there when they were arguing about it. Gregg didn't want his own wife to be a whore. Strange world, isn't it? She kept at him, kept shooting off her yap until he said okay, go ahead and hustle. After that she started badgering him about other things. Drove him right up a tree with the most nasty insults I've ever heard. Finally he hauled off and hit her one. Then she was happy. And don't you believe that shit she's laying on everybody about Gregg being the one who wanted her to get rid of the baby. She was the one who insisted on the abortion, but she gets her kicks out of making people feel sorry for her. On top of that, she goes for tricks who will knock her around. Strange the way people are, don't you think?"
Dell's title of "Entertainment Chairman" could have been interchanged with either "Chief Pimp" or "Orgy Arranger." He wasn't too pleased at the idea of a journalist being along. I kept telling him I wasn't a journalist, but he didn't want to listen. He kept saying snide things about members of the press being nosy, which made me wonder about the things he said about Barbara until I saw her in action.
The convention was in the high desert and it was chilly. Rhoda, who spent a lot of her childhood in the south, remarked as we left the plane that it was cold as a frog's ass in December. A couple of cars were at the private landing strip to pick us up and I felt the eyes of the black driver on me as I stepped in. He was curious, I could tell. Later, Juliette told me he asked her what the hell she meant by bringing a forty-year-old broad along.
She said, "Rollo told me the only Johns at the convention who'd be interested in making it with you are the ones who were so old they couldn't get it up any more. He could tell you were at least forty." Since I will never see fifty again, I took Rollo's remarks as a compliment. Before I left, I had a long conversation with Rollo and found him interesting. He said he liked pornography, and Juliette had told him I've written my share of that. He looked at me with a puzzled expression and said he couldn't believe a woman could write about sex with any real understanding.
My caustic tongue responded with my automatic reaction to that kind of chauvinism. "How typical. I suppose nobody ever told you that close to half of the people who participate in sex are women."
Rollo was ready for that one, though. He said, "Uh-huh. I've heard tell. But I never did like to fuck women. Never could see how so many men think it's the only way to go. Women are filth to me. Most of 'em, anyway. Except for my mother."
The dining hall was big enough to seat a thousand people and it was my guess a thousand were there, mostly men. Maybe a hundred were accompanied by their wives, and some had come to the convention with a girl friend. The dinner was exquisite and the wines delicious. Political business took a long time, and it was obvious that the majority of those who attended were there primarily because of their political party. It was just as obvious that some had come because they had some personal axe to grind. But most of them were sincerely interested in getting their own choices installed in prime positions. It seemed to me that only a very few of the people at that particular dinner were there because they had the means and the time to indulge their personal whims. But of course, I knew I could be wrong, because politicians have always been capable of walking along two sides of the street at once. Combining business with pleasure isn't an art that belongs strictly to the pols, but they seem to have developed it to a finely honed edge.
After the last resolution was made, the final rousing speech applauded, and all the booze was gone, over three-quarters of the regional politicians made going-home motions, or at least, back to their motel rooms.
Dell walked around. He strutted like a bantam rooster and did a lot of hand-rubbing as he grinned, talking to certain men who seemed to be in no hurry to leave. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but whatever it was appeared to be very interesting, if the way the faces of the men he talked with lighted up in gleeful anticipation was any indication.
The girls who had been on the plane with us were seated at a long table which they'd occupied throughout the dinner and speeches. They remained where they were, talking among themselves and to me. Other groups of girls were occupying other tables. There were only about a hundred hookers, and after the big room was cleared of most of the politicians, it echoed emptily as chairs scraped, girls giggled, and a few tired-looking waiters and waitresses went about the business of cleaning up the place.
Slowly, almost as if they were reluctant about the whole thing, the men who hadn't left with the rest of the crowd began to walk around the hall. They gravitated to the tables where the girls were, and most of them appeared to try very hard to come off casually. Twenty or so circled our table and I was reminded of male dogs in the process of smelling out a bitch in heat. But they all looked ill-at-ease and dogs never look the least bit inhibited.
Dell came pussy-footing up and invited all the men to what he referred to as a special party. It was to be held in Juliette's room, he said. Then he went to the other tables where the girls were and did the same thing. Each table had four to six girls.
Juliette is a fine actress. To see her in action, one would never know she doesn't enjoy sex. Her eyes glowed and every line of her body was an invitation. The other girls were equally alluring to look at and all the men were looking at them with that certain expression.
Just as we were about to leave for Juliette's room, wherever that was, I saw Rollo out of the corner of my eyes. He was surrounded by a group of handsome men, all dressed to the teeth and obviously there for the enjoyment of other men. A tall, slim, handsome blond man who looked about thirty rubbed against a short, balding politician who looked like a holdover from Tammany Hall, and they both giggled.
If there were any gentlemen of the evening who were available for the pleasure of women who had come alone, I didn't see any. I wondered why so many of the men looked worried. Once or twice it occurred to me that my own presence might have something to do with the way so many of the men looked over their shoulders as if they thought the long arm of the law might be reaching out for them at any minute, but Juliette assured me, when I asked her, that I had nothing to do with it. "Hell, you could pass for an old hooker, easy as pie. Don't pay any attention to what was said earlier. I know some fine ladies who are still in the business, and they're in their late sixties and seventies."
Dell gave Juliette her key. It was the first time she knew where her room was, and after a short discussion with him in private, she turned back to the rest of us and explained why the men were so uneasy. "There was a rumor that we were going to get busted, but Dell found out it was started by some jealous old bitch who was afraid her husband would leave her in the hotel room and go off with a strange girl."
The room was the usual beige and brown with bright patches of yellow and orange for relief that is so often used by hotel and motel decorators. We all had rooms of our own, but I was not part of the group. Instead of mine being attached to the rest of them with a handy connecting door, I was far removed from the action around the corner, which was a disappointment. Seeing how things were set up so the men could enjoy the women and pay for it was fine, but I didn't want my night's research to end there. Still, it looked very much as if I had been given a quick but wordless order to take myself off to bed.
I went over to the desk to put in a call to one of my editors. Just a few days earlier she'd reminded me to find out, if I could, whether the taxpaying public paid the tab on some of these parties that had been written up in some of the scandal rags. Some recent articles had hinted that sex and political conventions are another area of public repoff. I had my credit card in my hand and started to lift the telephone from the cradle when I caught a strange movement out of the corner of my eye. Realizing it was just the mirror over the desk, that I was seeing my own reflection, I put my hand back on the phone when I decided I was coming unhinged. There had been two images in the mirror, something that didn't register at first because I'd been so intent on what I was doing. I'd enjoyed the wine with dinner, but on only two goblets of wine along with a full meal, I didn't think I should be seeing double. A further look in the mirror told me I wasn't coming unhinged after all. It was a two-way mirror. It didn't take me long to find the little button down at the bottom that would turn it into a real mirror instead of a window that looked directly into the next room. But of course I pressed the button again, because I was not interested in looking at myself.
The gay crowd were enjoying themselves greatly. The tall, slim blond dude was swishing around the room, obviously the star of the show. He was doing an erotic dance and when I listened very hard I could hear the music. The rest of the men were sitting around on the floor in twos and threes, lounging intimately on the bed while they fondled one another (five of them), and the rest were on the chairs in close embrace.
The dancer did bumps and grinds. His only garment was on his massive cock, and I don't really believe the three daisies all linked together could be referred to properly as an article of clothing, but the daisy chain was symbolic. Before long, all the men began to grope in groups, and after a while they were all down on the floor where they did something I had read about but never seen before-a classic daisy chain.
My door opened and I jumped about a foot. Dell stood there with a grin that split his face into a comic mask that reminded me of one of those happy faces. "You know what that song is, Ms. Evans? The one they're playing in there, I mean."
I said no, I didn't recognize it. "But the one they were playing when I first realized-uh-well, just a minute ago. It was The Stripper, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, but I put this particular number on the stereo unit because I think it's pretty fitting. It's The Cake Walk."
"Oh." At the time, I wasn't operating on all eight. My senses were still pretty well zonked by the surprise view through the two-way mirror-window.
"You're pretty dense for a smart woman writer," said Dell. "Cock walk. Get it?"
I said I got it. Then I asked point-blank if the regional offices of that particular political party picked up the tabs when it came time to pay for sex.
"Oh, you got to be kidding." Dell's big eyes narrowed as his grin grew even wider. "No way!
Maybe up in the top drawer of politics the men get taken care of by the party. I wouldn't know about that. I mean, I don't know any of them personally and haven't ever furnished them with girls. But in this group of party-pols, the fee is strictly paid by the men who get the service." He cleared his throat. "Then there's a little something for the party. Like I just explained to a fella down there who wanted to turn on with Serena. He said he only wanted her for an hour so he thought he shouldn't have to kick in any more than twenty-five bucks. I said, man, that beautiful gal isn't any twenty-five dollar whore. She's a hundred-dollar call girl. You ought to be able to tell that by lookin' at her.
"He said he didn't think he ought to have to shell out twenty-five dollars for thirty minutes. That was as much as he paid his psychologist. I said hell, he'd get more good out of spending the money on'Serena than he ever got out of a visit to his shrink unless he screwed his shrink-and even if he did, it wouldn't be near as good as Serena.
"He allowed as how I was probably right. Then I laid it on him that he had to throw in ten bucks for the kitty. He asked what the hell I was talking about, so I told him the party needed money, and it was understood by all the men that wanted to be with one of the girls that ten dollars extra went for the cause.
"And you know what he said? Swear to God he did. Came right out flat-footed and said he'd heard everything, he thought. But he'd never heard tell of the party accepting a pimp fee. I told him he'd not been involved in politics very long." Dell grinned again and snapped his fingers. "But he didn't want to miss out on a chance, to prong Serena, so he paid up. We'll add a lot to the treasury tonight."
I said, "I suppose all the girls have taken their guys to their own private room by now."
Dell's face took on a mortified look. "Why, you don't think we'd do that without letting you in on a few little bits of the action, do you?"
"Yes, I sort of thought that was the way it was going to be. Except for the scene across the way there." I gestured toward the next room where the daisy chain was growing pretty ragged due to a few of the men falling away.
"Well, that's why I came. To escort you down the hall a piece to let you take a look-see through another one of those mirrors. I hope you don't mind, but it's my room. I kind of-enjoy looking in on things, to make sure nothing gets out of line."
I said I didn't mind. I followed Dell down the hall, wondering if maybe it wouldn't be a good idea for me to go back to writing gothics for a while. Research is research, I told myself firmly. But still and all, I wasn't looking forward to becoming a Peeping Tomasina. Asking questions, and taking notes or making a tape, is one thing. When I do that, I'm leveling with the people and they have the option to refuse to talk with me if they choose. Looking at men and women engaged in sexual embrace without their knowledge was something else again.
Once I met a man who owned a motel similar to the one Dell had arranged for the convention hookers. It was considerably smaller, though. At the time I met this motel owner, I was working as a newspaper reporter, and like a lot of young reporters, I had a yen to do some detective work. A local woman was seen going into the motel. She never came out and her husband suspected foul play. So I became cozy with the unsuspecting motel operator, cozy enough for him to take me into his confidence. My ability to relate to people in a way that makes them want to tell me everything has often come in handy. That compassionate quality is sincere, and combined with a certain quality about my features that I was lucky enough to be born with, moves people to confide everything-if they're inclined to confide anything. The motel owner was no exception. He was proud of his innovation. Not only was he running a nice little house of .prostitution, he was picking up a considerable amount of extra revenue by renting out rooms to those who don't want to participate but enjoy watching.
That was many years ago, and my introduction to those who watch. Later, I learned that watch-artists have been around a long time. Back in the days of the Roman Empire, long before Nero diddled while Rome burned, there were peepholes for the exclusive use of men and women who got off watching others engaged in sex.
The motel owner was the first person who ever let me in on the two-way mirror for hire, but my urge to play detective and be the brilliant young newspaper reporter who solved the crime came to an abrupt halt. The missing woman wasn't being held prisoner and forced to work as one of the girls. Instead, she was living with the motel owner, and the only reason she'd remained out of sight was because she was afraid her husband might kill her. He eventually did, but that's another story. But I was thinking of that long-ago time as I went into Dell's room and watched him slyly adjust the two-way mirror.
It had been a long time since I had seen an orgy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Juliette was lying a little apart from the rest of the men and women. She was on the floor along with the rest of them, but she was content to do her own thing. Now and then one of the politicians would try to replace her hand with his own, but Juliette slapped it away. After a while she allowed a very handsome and very young man-who looked less than eighteen-to nurse the breast she wasn't sucking herself. He just sat there naked, with his cock as hard as a rock, and sucked and sucked. After a while Barbara came over and took his cock in her mouth. She sucked on it enthusiastically until the young man shot off. He never looked at her once, nor did he speak to her. Barbara moved on, crawling on all fours.
The red-haired girl named Elaine apparently believed in sharing. She had a man on each breast, a cock in her mouth and one in her pussy, and to accomplish this four-way trick she was on her hands and knees. When the action between red-haired Elaine and her four admirers reached the most urgent point, another man joined in by licking her all up and down her slit, which caused her to hump harder and more furiously.
Iris was occupied with a fat man who wore the entire top part of his attire right down to the necktie. He was on top of her, and his face was very serious as he went in and out of Iris. Above the hubbub and laughter and music and tinkle of ice, his voice was loud and clear. "Oh, you darling little whore, you! I love you! Love you, do you hear me?"
Iris' voice answered, equally clear: "You silly bastard, you don't have to love me just because you're fucking me. Can't you screw just because you like to?"
He shook his head and kept telling her he loved her.
Serena sat between two youngish-looking men. She was giving them both hand jobs, and at the same time she was chatting animatedly with a good-looking type who had a studious air about him. He shook his head now and then, as if he disagreed with whatever it was she was saying. I couldn't hear what they were talking about, but I wished I could.
Plump Rhoda, a vision of sexual beauty in the buff, was stretched out on the carpet with her legs wide apart while a tall, skinny man with a mustache lapped her dripping pussy. I couldn't believe what I saw. Rhoda was holding a magazine in one hand and her eyes moved back and forth across the page, as I assumed she was reading it.
"Takes all kinds," said Dell and laughed as if he had said something original. He had one hand in his pocket and it suddenly dawned on me that he had a hole in that pocket. I had never been in exactly that situation before. Once, about two years ago, I stood on the deck of a ship waving to friends who had come to meet me. My traveling companion nudged me and gestured toward the youth, who stood close to my right. I had seen the boy around during the cruise, but hadn't met him or spoken to him. It was obvious he was whanging himself off, oblivious to everything, including the mass of people on the shore, and his nervous mother who kept tapping his shoulder and making strangling sounds. But knowing the boy was beating his meat and not knowing the boy was somewhat different from standing next to Dell and knowing he was doing the same. I mean, we'd known one another for several hours and had talked.
Unabashed, he went into action that was pretty furious and gave me a happy grin as he humped forward and remained like that, with his hips thrust forward and a long, whistling sigh of pleasure coming from his nose. Then he said, "There's no two ways about it, and I'm not a freak, either. I can do it for myself a lot easier, and it feels better than when a woman does it for me."
I said, "It takes all kinds," but I didn't laugh at my own joke. I was thinking about Juliette and doing a lot of wondering.
Dell wasn't looking at Juliette, though. His eyes were glued on Barbara during that last surging roil that led to his gush. She was standing over in a corner in a half-apologetic attitude, her shoulders slumped and her face a study of sorrow. A couple of men were halfheartedly hitting her with whips.
The rest of the room was a mixed bag of men, most of whom appeared to be waiting their turn. I wondered if they really were waiting for a chance to get one of the girls and have at it right then and there, or if some of them preferred the privacy of their own room. Dell might have read my mind.
"Those girls are going to be busy all night long," he said as he slipped his dick out to take a long, pensive look at it before he wiped it clean with a tissue. "I hope none of the little chippies try to knock down the party. Lots of those guys don't want to participate in an orgy. They're too shy, maybe, or for all I know, they might be ashamed of the size of their dongs. But I've got my way of keeping tabs on those hookers, and I told every one of them they better not try to sneak in a quickie without keeping it on the tally."
I asked if he meant what I thought he meant.
He looked downright grim. "You're damn right, sweetheart. Here's the way it works for the girls: they get fifty dollars a throw. The party doesn't get a dime of their money. But every one of those men have to ante up that extra ten I told you about. The party needs the money. You've got to remember this is an election year. Lots of big shot politicians ride to office on sex, honey. I thought you knew that."
I said I hadn't known.
He wiped his right hand on another tissue, then held it out to me, palm up. "And that'll be a hundred from you, Ms. Evans."
"For what?"
"Why, for coming along and getting a chance to learn about this business. Didn't you ever hear that old saying about there being no free lunch?"
I reminded him that I had paid for my dinner, which was not inexpensive, and that I had also paid for my share of the plane fare. I kept looking at the palm of his hand, which was still shiny and wet. So I told him to hold out his other hand.
CHAPTER NINE
Marcie is a blonde haired, delicate featured, petite, beautiful, intelligent young woman. Sitting across from her in the quiet restaurant, slowly sipping a pink lady, it was hard for me to believe she was a prostitute.
"I make a lot better living in my line of business," she explained. "I came to South Carolina after my divorce, and immediately fell in love with this small resort town. It is wonderfully different than New York with all the hustle and bustle. And the people are friendly. However, it isn't easy to find work here. There are only two factories; and I can't stand the thought of working in a factory, anyway. Aside from that there's a small hospital and the hotel to provide employment.
"And you chose the hotel."
"Well, not exactly." She smiled and reached into her purse for a cigarette. "I had to wait a few weeks before they had an opening, and that was in the cocktail lounge."
"You didn't like that line of work?"
"No, it's not that. In fact, I still work there three nights a week, but it's hard work, harder than most people seem to realize, and I have to put up with more bullshit from my lounge customers than most of my other clients." She took a long drag from her cigarette. Her dark brown eyes laughed. "However, if it weren't for that lounge, I most likely wouldn't have acquired my sideline."
"I found Ponce. Or I guess I should say, he found me."
"Ponce?"
Marcie laughed, then continued. "Yes. That's his nickname. Everybody knows about his extra little business. He's worked at the hotel as a waiter for over ten years, and has about fifteen girls working for him on the side. It's easy for him to make contacts, especially when one of the conventions is going on. That's how I got started. It was during a political convention. Ponce lived in England for a long time. His nickname is the British way of saying 'pimp'.
"He approached me late one evening after I had been working in the lounge for around two months. Of course, by then I knew about his extra business activities. He told me he was short one girl to work the convention, and asked if I would be interested.
"At first I refused, but after he explained how much money I would make and that he would protect my identity from the hotel manager, which would keep me from getting fired, I changed my mind. After all, in the two months I'd worked there, I had screwed three of my customers, scared to death that they or someone else would fink on me. I screwed them for nothing. I figured I might as well make a little money if I was going to fuck anyway, and I knew I would, because I like it so much."
I smiled. "You mean you enjoy your business?"
"Of course. I wouldn't do it if I didn't. Some of the girls do it strictly for the money, though. They're very cold individuals, to my way of thinking. Or just kidding themselves.
"I've always liked to screw. I started when I was fourteen, and liked it the very first time. It was with a schoolmate. He was two years older than me, and very experienced for his age. He knew just exactly how-to play with my clit and kiss my titties until I'd be a wild, slobbering demon, begging for him. Then he'd stick his huge prick in me and in no time we'd both come. Boy, I hated it when he moved to California." She shook her head slowly back and forth, and took a small sip of her almost empty drink.
"Would you like another drink?" I asked, interrupting her reverie.
She smiled. "Yes, I think I would."
I waved for the waitress as Marcie continued her story.
"It wasn't hard to get started with the help of Ponce. The second night of the political convention he told me that he had a prospective customer for me. The man, Ponce went on to say, had seen me the night before and asked if I-you know. Ponce said I was available, though I was new at the job. That interested him even more, so Ponce made arrangements for me to meet him after work."
"Where did you meet?"
"Well, certainly not at the hotel!" Marcie laughed, her eyes twinkling teasingly. "I always meet my customers at Ponce's place. He has two apartments. One for his use and the other for any of his girls who need it. Most of the other girls take the guys to their places, but I eion't want to do that. The apartment is always clean, and it is extremely private.
"My first client's name was Dave. A good-looking man. I probably would have screwed him anyway if I had the chance! He was blond, very clean, about five feet eleven, but married. He explained to me that he used the services of prostitutes when away from home because he didn't want to get involved with anyone. He loved his wife, he said solemnly, but he also loved to ball. We were a good pair.
"After about two hours of fucking and sucking when we both were completely tired out and lay resting in each other's arms, he told me that I was the best piece of ass he had ever had, and he'd had plenty. He must have meant it, because since he was paying me, he didn't have to compliment my work.
"He paid me and left. I felt a little guilty about taking his money since I had enjoyed myself so much, but since I have been at it for two years now, I figure that the fun jobs make up for the not-so-fun ones, and I don't mind taking the money at all any more."
"What do you mean, not-so-fun jobs?" I asked.
"Oh, you'd be surprised at some of the weirdos a prostitute comes across sometimes."
"For instance?"
Marcie lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then she smiled. "Well, there was this guy with a foot fetish."
"I've heard of such things, but please go on."
"He was about fifty or so, I would guess, fat and ugly. I wouldn't have agreed to be with him at all, if I hadn't been up against it for some cash at the time. It had been a long time between conventions. Anyway, I did agree and met him at Ponce's as usual. He asked me to get undressed and he did the same, then he asked me to get on the bed, backwards, you know, with my feet on the pillow and my head at the foot. I did and he put his face close to my feet. After a second or two he started stroking them. It tickled and I started to squirm and giggle.
"He insisted that I "remain perfectly still and quiet. He said he would report me if I didn't. Boy, it was hard to do, but I managed.
"After he had stroked my feet for a while, he started to lick them. That was almost unbearable. It took all my willpower to lie still. He sucked on each toe and ran his tongue between them. I started thinking about some kind of torture I had read about that was similar to what he was doing to me. I could see how a person could lose his or her mind under the circumstances.
"He didn't allow me to move until after he had rubbed his stubby, hard dick all over both of my feet and shot his hot sticky come on them."
"God," I said, shaking my head. "That is weird."
"He's the strangest man I've ever known," Marcie continued. "But he did pay me well, and didn't report me.
"And then there was the lesbian. I'd never been to bed with a woman before, and was curious as to what it was like, although I had refused at first, but when Ponce told me she promised to pay me double what I usually make, I agreed.
"Her name was Beth, and she was in town with an astrologers' convention. She treated me very tenderly. I have read that women know how to make love to other women better than men, and I'll admit I enjoyed the rushes of pleasure she gave me, but I don't think I'll ever go to bed with a woman again. It just felt too unnatural, kind of creepy."
"I can understand that," I said. "I don't think I'd feel very comfortable either."
"I'll tell you, though," Marcie went on. "When she stuck one finger in my ass and one in my pussy, and then started licking my clit, I forgot for a minute that she was a woman. She made me come three times, and didn't ask me to do anything to her."
"That's rather unusual, isn't it?"
"Yes, from what I hear, but she knew I'd never been with a woman before, and she wasn't pushy. I know she came when she was rubbing her body against mine. I could tell. But she didn't ask me to eat her or anything."
"Do you or any of the other girls have trouble with the local authorities?" I inquired.
"Well, prostitution is against the law here, but as far as the local police go, they leave us alone. I imagine they get a kickback. Prostitution is big business in most resort towns. There are other pimps and hookers besides the group I belong to. There was one time, though, when I got kind of scared...."
"Why? What happened?"
"Well, about a year ago the county prosecutor decided he was going to put a stop to all the gambling and prostitution in the entire county. He was newly elected, and I suppose he was trying to impress the higher-ups. Anyway, he hired private detectives and planted some of them in the hotel. He really had a fine plan, and it was kept completely secret. No one knew about it until several of the girls were caught. Me, too, almost."
"I bet that was frightening," I said.
"Right ... I mean, what I do doesn't hurt anyone. When you get down to it, the girls are the ones who take a chance on being hurt. You never know for sure what the guy is going to be like.
"This particular night was busier than hell, a four-state group of Lions Club members were at the hotel. Ponce approached me in the usual manner to see if I would agree to meet someone later on, when I was through working the lounge. He pointed the man out to me, and I said I would. He was very attractive. Tall-at least six feet-and dressed stylishly. I was looking forward to my job that night.
"As usual, I met him at Ponce's. He was sitting outside in a big shiny car, and when he saw me he very politely stepped out of his car and opened the door to the apartment stairs for me.
"Once inside the bedroom, while I was sitting on the bed and had started to remove my dress, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. 'You don't have to pay me yet,' I told him. I was laughing a little, because I truly thought that was what he intended to do. Then he opened his billfold and showed me his credentials. 'You're under arrest for prostitution,' he stated flatly, and proceeded to tell me my rights.
"I'll tell you, I never was so frightened in my life. There I was, a twenty-five year old woman whom everybody back home thinks is an angel. I'd be put in jail. It would be in all the papers!"
"What did you do?" I asked, genuinely feeling the girl's fear.
"I begged and pleaded with him, and cried real tears. I told him I had only been to bed with someone for money once before, which was a lie, but he had no way of knowing. At least I hoped he didn't. I went on to say that I would never do such a thing again, if he would just let me go.
"He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Just looked at me, but I could tell by the way his eyes shone that he wanted me. He looked sympathetic, too. He was ... very ... a very good lover. I ended up enjoying the night after all.
"Two hours of sex with George left me deliriously happy and content, and I knew he felt the same way. We had made love tenderly, caressing each other's bodies with gentle strokes. He sucked my breasts as if he were a baby, taking every drop of pretended milk from each one. He had me panting for relief by the time he allowed his giant rock-hard cock to enter me. I had never been screwed in slow motion before, and enjoyed it more than I could tell him. It seemed like I could feel every inch of him throbbing throughout my entire body.
"We came together. I still see him now and then, and he knows I didn't quit balling for money, as I told him I would, but he causes me no trouble. As a matter-of-fact, I like him. He likes me, too. If I had met him before I started hustling, I think I really could have fallen for him."
"How long do you plan to continue with your present sideline?"
Marcie gave me one of her beautiful smiles. "Oh, I'm not sure. Probably for another couple of years. I'll be twenty-eight then, and will probably move on to another town. I should have plenty of cash by then. And I guess I ought to plan on settling down before too long. Maybe find some nice guy, get married and have a baby. I've always wanted a baby." .
"Just keep working and hoping you don't get caught, right?"
She laughed. "You bet. But I don't think there's much chance of it, as long as I don't steal from anyone, and I've never done that. The whole business had to slow down during the time I was just telling you about, when I thought I'd had it. But it all blew over. In about two months everything was going strong again."
"That quickly?" I was amazed.
"Sure. The new prosecutor made his headlines, and that's all he actually wanted. The girls who were arrested were just fined a small amount, which their pimps paid for them if they were short of cash. None of the pimps were arrested. I imagine they paid somebody off."
"What do you think about prostitution as a whole, Marcie?"
"To tell the truth, I think it's a needed service. After all, men are going to screw, and it's better that they come to a prostitute when they feel the urge than to rape some innocent, unsuspecting woman or young girl. Besides, most prostitutes keep themselves cleaner than the average woman. We have to be, and we have regular checkups to make sure we carry no diseases."
"Well, I guess that's one way of looking at it." I smiled, and she answered me with a smile of her own.
"Well," she said, extending her hand, "it has been nice meeting and talking to you, but I had best be on my way. There's another convention in town tonight, and I am sure I will be kept quite busy, even though I don't have to work in the lounge. Ponce has two new guys and one old customer lined up for me. I've got to go home and rest a bit so I can be in tip-top shape."
I shook her extended hand and thanked her for the conversation. "I am sure it will be an interesting addition to my book."
"Any time," she said and turned to leave.
I watched her walk out of the restaurant. Outside the glass door, she turned and waved. I acknowledged the wave, thinking how exceptionally pretty she was, and so fresh-looking. Not at all like the typical picture one gets in his head when he thinks of a prostitute. But these days, most all hookers have a new image. The blatant whore types have all but disappeared from the scene.
The following morning a note was delivered to my hotel room. It was from Marcie, but she didn't sign her name.
* * *
It's strange how things work out. I was talking with Ponce last night about the book you're doing and said you were particularly interested in politicians and their special interests. He told me about a girl who calls herself Astrid. Even secondhand the story is amazing, but Ponce said she would love to talk to you, and I'm sure she'll be far more informative than I was. She's been in the business for years.
The telephone number where I could reach As-trid followed.
* * *
Astrid appeared close to forty. Her hair was black and her eyes were blue. I suspected that she didn't come by the black hair without some help from a beauty shop, but her lush body was seductive, youthful, and graceful. She also had a marvelous sun tan. She winters in Florida, usually. Sometimes it's California or Arizona, though. She spends at least a month out of every year at a ski resort during the season. "That's when I take my vacation. I own the place, and that's where I'll go when I retire."
The rest of the year, Astrid follows the conventions. She likes to travel and maintains only a tiny efficiency apartment in an Atlantic seaboard state for a home base. She lives there because it's close to New York City and she can make excellent connections on airlines to everywhere. She said the conventions were lucrative and once she proved herself to those who counted, they were free of hassles. She became hooked on traveling during World War Two, when she was married to a career soldier. Maybe she noticed the surprised reaction I had to her statement about being married to a soldier during World War Two, which made her much older than I had thought. She smiled, tossed her head, and said she was fifty-six. "People don't have to look old. I'm active, which keeps my body in good condition. I don't abuse myself by drinking too much or eating too much, either. And I feel good about myself, which probably accounts for the lack of wrinkles on my face, though I'm beginning to sag a bit around the chinline. So in a few years I'll have a face-lift. Even then, I won't want to look like a girl any more. I prefer to look like a mature woman, because that's what I am."
She had a son by her husband, who was killed in action. The son manages the ski resort she owns. He's divorced from his wife and has custody of their child, but Astrid remains friendly with her former daughter-in-law. "She's an honest woman, which is a rare find. She didn't want the baby, but she was too far along to get an abortion when she found out she was pregnant. After my grandchild was born, she tried very hard to adjust, but she's never liked children, and was woman enough to admit it. My son is doing a marvelous job of bringing the darling up, and I simply adore my grandchild."
Astrid believes in giving her clients what they want, and believes she is fulfilling a need. A great number of her tricks are masochistic. She said she has a solid reputation for being trustworthy. "Wild horses couldn't make me name names, but over the years I've seen a definite increase in a need for punishment among my customers. So many men simply can't get it up unless they can find someone to hurt them a little. I've worked out a system that makes the dudes feel properly chastised without really going the sadistic route."
Politicians are Astrid's greatest source of income. "Of course, they're married men for the most part. That's part of the game. Voters like to think of their government representatives as decent family men, but I think the frankness of today is a healthy trend for everyone concerned. The homosexuals among us are beginning to come out of the closet. A few years ago divorce was unheard of among the top dogs in the political scene, but now it's pretty well accepted. But the American public still isn't ready to accept what they consider perverted sexual behavior in the people who run the country. I mean, who wants to think about a governor, for instance, who likes to have his clothes torn off, be handcuffed to a bed and worked over with a whip?"
Astrid used every precaution to protect the identity of the men she told me about, including the use of fictitious names.
Lou has been a regular of Astrid's for twenty years. "If I told you his name, and if you used it, he'd be ruined, and I would no doubt be dead. But even though his needs are a little strange, he's a great guy, and he's doing a marvelous job in his elected office."
Lou has to feel like he's being raped. In order to get him aroused, Astrid tells him a story. They're all similar, and this is an example.
* * *
Once upon a time there was a very handsome man who dreamed of becoming a United States Senator. Sometimes this man even allowed himself to contemplate visions of himself living in the White House.
One morning when this man-and we'll call him John-was in his hotel studying a government report on the mating habits of tree frogs, the maid knocked on the door. He called out for her to enter, and went back to reading his report.
The maid went about the business of cleaning the room. John kept on studying the report and paid little attention to her. He'd not even noticed what she looked like, because he was so interested in what he was doing.
Suddenly he felt something slip over his head and his head jerked back as he tried to struggle free of the rope that had lassoed him. But he was too late. The maid pulled the rope taut and he was unable to move his arms. But he could stand up, so he did so, and spoke quietly to the madwoman who had him tied, explaining that she must let him go. He took a step toward her, and she tripped him, which sent him sprawling on the floor.
He was helpless because she sat on his legs, and his arms were firmly secured to his body. Looking up at her from his supine position, he saw that she was an attractive woman, though much older than John. She was also a very big woman. Her breasts were mammoth. As he looked at her and begged her to release him, she tore her blouse off and shoved one of those great big nipples into his mouth.
With the hand that wasn't firmly holding the rope, the woman proceeded to claw all of poor John's clothes off. But she kept her tit in his mouth all the time so he could no longer speak to her, and beg her to stop doing the terrible, depraved things she was doing to him.
Then she started massaging John's cock, which she brought to throbbing erection. As soon as it was hard enough to stand up straight, she positioned her great big ass above him and slid right down his pole, gobbling every inch right up inside her.
Poor John. There he was, with his arms tied chose to his body and a big woman on top of him, grinding down against his pubic hair on the downbeat and screaming with pleasure on the back swing. She humped and humped and humped. Sometimes she pivoted her ass around in circles. Other times, she just kept pistoning her hips and riding him.
John was totally helpless and certainly as innocent as a newborn lamb. Yet he was made of flesh and blood. Before long, he realized that he was not going to be able to help himself. Try as hard as he could, he couldn't keep from liking what she was doing to him. He closed his eyes and prayed for deliverance, hoped somebody would come into the hotel room and find him and realize what was going on before it was too late ... but nobody came. Nobody, that is, except poor John.
* * *
After that, Astrid said, the elected official was sufficiently into the story to allow her to do the same thing to him that the big maid did to the story character. "But he always has to pretend that he participates against his will," she said, with an understanding shake of her head. "The poor bastard. It makes you wonder what happened to him early on. And his poor wife. He told me once that they have no sex life. It's my guess that if his wife had to go through all that business with him every time she wanted to ball, she probably got tired of it. They have teenage children. I just hope his wife has some enjoyment in her life!"
Another regular customer of Astrid's likes to have her bathe him the way a mother bathes a baby. She coos at him and talks baby-talk as she washes his body with a mild soap, rinses him, and powders him all over with baby powder. Then she takes him on her lap and lets him nurse for a long, long time. That's all he wants from her. He never gets an erection, never touches her anywhere but on the breasts and when he does that it's done in the same way a baby kneads his mother's breasts as it sucks.
Joe brings along a curry comb. Before he can get a hard-on, Astrid must use the sharp-toothed metal comb on Joe's back, inner thighs and around his genital area. His skin turns bright red and the blood almost seeps through. But it's the only way he's able to get it on, so maybe he's thankful to the person who invented the curry comb.
Mel is a big, healthy, deeply tanned man who appears very masculine. He is also a well known political figure and lives the good life. When Mel is with Astrid he does something he's compelled to do often, but can't because of his public image and position. Mel puts on Astrid's clothes. They aren't from her own personal wardrobe because, even though she's not a small woman, Mel is much taller and broader. Whenever she goes to a convention she takes along her "specia!" clothes, because if she doesn't encounter Mel, she's sure to need the sexy women's clothes for another man who likes that sort of thing.
She said she felt sorry for the Mels of this world and other men who need what the majority of people would think of as kinky, weird, or even crazy and perverted. "Mel isn't a homosexual. I suppose if I had to put a label on him, I'd say he's a trans-vestite, but only on occasion. I know another girl who takes care of Mel when he's at home. I don't know whether his wife can't or won't. Anyway, this girl who lives in the capital agrees with me, and I say he's a marvelous lay, and he comes to see her at least once a week. And I don't know why he doesn't want to wear this other girl's clothes. Maybe he doesn't trust her as much as he does me. Hell, I don't know. All I know is, he puts on pantyhose, a bra, and a pair of bikinis. Then he steps into a dress and I zip it up for him. After that comes the shoes and they're open at the toe with three-inch heels. He isn't interested in cosmetics and he doesn't want a wig. As soon as he's paraded around in the clothes for a while, he's ready to ball."
I asked if he had sex passively. "Does he prefer to be on the bottom?"
"Nope. Not usually. He loves it all ways and any way. He fucks like a man. A good man."
PART THREE Funeral Directors' Conventions
CHAPTER TEN
When she was three years old, Brenda won a blue ribbon and several prizes at the county fair, when she was crowned Most Beautiful Baby of the year. At five, she started taking dancing lessons and when she entered the first grade her mother saw to it that she took baton and piano. By the time she was in the eighth grade, Brenda had appeared on every talent show the television stations around the area offered. She won several more beauty contests and walked away with first prize in every competition around. She was an accomplished pianist, had an excellent voice, danced like a dream, made good grades in school, and her ambitious mother dreamed of bigger things. If her father had anything to say, it was within the confines of the home.
Brenda's senior year in high school was a blaze of glory. She was the Sweetheart Queen, most admired cheerleader, editor of the yearbook, valedictorian of her class, and on top of that, she'd been on two national television shows. She showed off her glorious voice on one and delivered a well-written speech against drug addiction on another. Her mother's plans for the following year included entering Brenda in the Miss America contest. After that, the mother was sure her daughter would automatically become a Hollywood star. "After all," she repeated over and over to anyone and everyone, "Brenda has everything it takes to become rich and famous. Look at that naturally blonde hair. Look at that gorgeous figure. And those eyes. Absolutely perfect. We've spent a small fortune on her teeth, but with a million-dollar smile like that it was certainly worth it. She even has dimples. But she's just as talented and smart as she's beautiful. And she's wholesome. Nobody can top my daughter in anything."
Brenda was still a virgin when she graduated from high school. No doubt her mother had seen to that, too. So there she was, all set to go all the way to the top, with her mother right behind her, pushing hard.
The year she was eighteen, Brenda made it easily through all the elimination contests from Kaliocaski County to the state level. Back home the local papers and television stations followed her every move, and at the end of each blazing victory they reminded everyone that Brenda had everything going for her to become Miss America. She would put the small town on the map.
Something happened. Another girl walked off with the state crown. Brenda took it with good grace but her mother didn't. That dear lady's protests included accusations of bribery among the judges and harlotry within the ranks of contestants. Brenda kept saying, "Mother, please...."
But the mother was not to be stopped. Maybe hell has no fury like a woman scorned, but anybody who was the victim of her wrath will swear there's no fury like a mother whose ambitions for her child have been thwarted.
Embarrassed almost to the point of tears, Brenda turned to her father for support. "Daddy, the contest was fair. Mother is making a fool of herself, and me too. Can't you do something to stop her?"
The father committed suicide. He blew his brains out a couple of nights after Brenda asked him to do something about her mother's scurrilous tongue. Her mother had to be hauled off to a mental hospital before the hapless man was buried. Brenda saw to her father's funeral arrangements and quietly took a job in the local bank, a has-been at eighteen.
There were tremendous financial obligations Brenda hadn't known about. To make matters worse, her father's insurance company refused to pay off because of his suicide. Brenda sold the house in order to pay off the tremendous bills her mother had run up to showcase her talented daughter. Every time Brenda went to the hospital to see her mother, she left in a state of depression. The older woman had to be restrained all the time, but she could still talk, and talk she did. She babbled on and on about the future in spite of the heavy sedation she was under. She said things like, "Just wait until you walk off with the crown, honey. After you've won at the state level, mother is sure you'll be Miss America."
Because she didn't know any better, Brenda tried in the beginning to talk reasonably with her mother by reminding her as gently as she could that the state beauty contest had already been held, and she'd lost. But her mother wasn't going to have it that way. She turned against her daughter completely, believing Brenda was a spy for one of the other contestants. From then on, the poor woman didn't recognize her own child.
Wearily, Brenda continued to work at the bank, where she smiled nicely at the people who came to her window. Finally she met a nice young electronics engineer who asked her to be his wife. She accepted and they lived together happily for two years. Then the engineer fell in love with another woman and asked Brenda to go to get a nice, quiet, civilized divorce, preferably in Reno or Las Vegas. She did as he requested, then came right back home where she went back to work in the bank.
In time, she began dating a handsome stranger, a government engineer who came to town to work on a big new man-made lake that was touted by the town chamber of commerce as a future boon to the community. Before long, Brenda was sleeping with the handsome engineer, which she enjoyed tremendously. She loved him and deep within her traditionally-oriented soul, she expected him to ask her to marry him.
They made a striking couple. Brad had dark hair and eyes which contrasted nicely with Brenda's blonde beauty. He was divorced and had no children. She dated him for a year and slept with him almost every night, but she was careful about not being seen when she went over to his apartment, because she was very conscious of her reputation.
About a month after she began her relationship with Brad, Brenda's mother died, following a violent session with a therapist who was trying to bring her back to reality. She thrashed around against her restraints and had a stroke.
One snowy January afternoon, Brad called Brenda at the bank and asked her to drive over to the city. It was forty miles away, but they went there often, like most of the people who lived in the area, when they wanted something more than the few entertainment spots the town had to offer. She said she'd meet him at Holly's, a bar where they'd met before. He said to wear something glittery. They were going to a place that required evening dress. She agreed and came dressed in a gorgeous blue gown that showed off every luscious line of her body. The dress was new. She splurged and paid two hundred dollars for it. The wrap was old, but she'd only worn it once before, the night she had lost the state crown. It was a full-length mink cape, one of the many items Brenda's mother had obtained on the unlimited credit that had become immediately limited after Brenda lost the contest.
Brad said they were going to a dinner party at an expensive hotel, and she was going to meet some influential friends of his. Brenda was delighted.
She sparkled, showed her dimples as she dazzled everyone with her perfect smile and charmed all of Brad's good friends with her wit. There were six couples, and one elderly man at the dinner party. Her brilliant smile went off when Brad told her what he expected of her and why. "Al is more than just a friend of mine, Brenda." At the time, they were dancing cheek to cheek. Then Brad went on to tell her that Al could be instrumental in getting him where he wanted to go, which was to leave the government and step into private enterprise. His salary would be three times as much as he was making. And so on and so on. Finally, he said, "So I hope you'll understand why I'm asking you to go to his hotel suite with him tonight. I knew you'd appeal to him. Even with all his money, he can't expect to find a girl as lovely as you are."
Brenda felt the room whirling around her. Everything turned black for a second or two while she reeled back and forth. But Brad had a firm grip on her so she didn't fall to the floor, and she didn't faint all the way, either. She turned icy cold, but her voice sounded almost normal when she said, "So you want me to do you this favor. You want me to make love to him."
"Right."
Brenda lifted her chin. She looked Brad square in the eyes and managed a shadow of her dazzling smiles "I'll be happy to, Brad."
.Brad was offered the position with the company old Al owned the very next day. He told Brenda he wanted to take her out that night. "We'll celebrate."
"Sure," she said. "That'll be wonderful."
So they went out that night and went to bed later. Afterwards, when Brad was having his usual after-sex cigarette, Brenda sat up in bed and put her hand out. "That'll be a hundred dollars, Brad."
He told her not to say things like that. "Christ, honey, you sounded serious!"
"I am serious, Brad. Just count your blessings. I could ask for retroactive pay, you know."
He didn't want to, but Brad paid Brenda the hundred.
She said she would always consider Brad her second customer. Al was her first, although she didn't receive any pay for balling the elderly man.
After that, she went into part-time hooking. Before the episode with Al, she'd been offered other deals, usually jokingly, sometimes frankly. She'd pretended she didn't understand, and nothing had ever come of any of those previous offers, thinly veiled or otherwise.
A jolting experience with a delegation of local ladies came a year later. Brenda left town the following day. Included in the group of do-gooders were the wives of the mayor, the banker, two doctors, a dentist, the baker and the major stockholder and president of a sprawling furniture company, the area's main industry. There were other women, most of whom pretended that their husbands had not been entertained by the ravishing blonde. They said, as they gnashed their teeth and made clawing motions with their hands, that they came along because they wanted to help keep their fair city clean of trash like Brenda.
It was no trouble for the fantastically beautiful girl to feather a new nest for herself, and the city she chose was a big one, the nest a far cry from the modest little apartment she'd maintained since she sold her family home.
Brenda remains loyal to her early upbringing. She seldom swears, uses no four-letter words, and drinks only an occasional cocktail before dinner. She's an asset at a dinner party, and often acts as hostess to important men when they entertain business associates. Even though she seldom goes to bed with the business executives for whom she arranges lavish dinners and coordinates everything so tastefully, her fee is the same as if she had five hundred dollars.
She is now thirty-five years old and even more beautiful than she was at seventeen, when she thought, because she'd been brought up to think it, that the world would soon be hers. She owns a lavish town house, a few condominiums, a downtown office building, and other real estate. Her diamonds, emeralds and amethyst necklace with matching earrings are usually kept in a safe deposit box along with other, less expensive jewelry. She dresses well, but not ostentatiously, and drives a Volkswagen sometimes, although she owns a Lincoln.
At the time of her mother's death, Brenda hadn't accumulated the wealth and comforts she has today. Once again she was faced with the expense of a funeral, and there was no insurance to cover it. Brenda will never forget the genuine help of a funeral director some twenty miles from her home.
"I have a soft spot in my heart for these people. Oh, sure, some of them are totally mercenary individuals who lie to people. They use the natural shock and sorrow of having to put a loved one away for all it's worth. But there are unethical, unscrupulous individuals in every profession. When my father died I was very young. The funeral director in my home town was both sympathetic and helpful. He was an old man himself at the time, and not too long after my father's suicide, he died. Even though he let me have everything at cost, I still owed him two hundred dollars when he passed away. And do you know, that dear, kind old man wrote that debt off just three days before he went to the hospital for his final illness. I learned that I wasn't the only person in town who owed him money at the time of his death, but that all those debts were canceled.
"Then I had to cope with the same thing when my mother died. Again, I had a heartwarming experience. That's why I do what I can to make funeral directors happy."
The April convention of funeral directors was arranged by Brenda. The rooms were both comfortable and quiet. Those whose wives came to the convention were housed in a separate section of the hotel, far away from the girls Brenda imported from a well-known brothel. The men who were expected to require the services of the girls were in another section of the hotel, which Brenda explained would cut down on confusion as well as misunderstanding.
"These men are, for the most part, an orderly group. They don't like trouble. As I said, there are exceptions to all rules, but I've learned that even the most rowdy kind of man tends to calm down and behave himself when he's in the company of other men who tend to be conservative."
The convention food was the solid steak, baked potato and salad type, exquisitely prepared under Brenda's expert supervision. Everything went off without a ripple during the three days of the convention. The fact that Brenda cleared more than fifteen thousand dollars for her many services only proves, she said with simple dignity, that she was worth every penny of it.
After that statement, I said, "Yes, but aren't most Funeral Directors' Conventions pretty quiet anyway?" I was thinking about the few men in the profession I know on a personal basis.
Brenda smiled. "Not really. It's part of their image, which is why I am invaluable when it comes to planning and coordinating conventions. You see, people like to think of undertakers as sober, dignified people. Not just because they don't want to turn the funeral of a relative into a carnival, but because everybody knows that death is something they have to face for themselves some day. It isn't fitting for a funeral director to run around town wearing bermuda shorts, riding a motorbike, or visiting houses of prostitution. If they get too folksy, people tend to back off. I think this is because of the built-in knowledge that we're all going to die some day, and nobody likes the idea of the person in charge of things running around acting like a clown."
"But you said funeral directors aren't any different from other men. They need to let off steam now and then. Yet you've put together a convention that doesn't allow them to."
"Oh, they let off plenty of steam all right. It's just that my method and arrangements are safe. The wing of the hotel where the girls were was jumping."
I said I would have appreciated seeing some of that action. Brenda told me my presence would have put a damper on things. "But I've arranged for you to talk with some of the girls."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For the most part, the conventioning funeral directors behaved pretty much the same way as other men who get away from home and look around for a change from the sexual scene on the home front.
Debbie's John was different, though. She said, "I usually get the kinky ones. Maybe I have a natural talent for taking care of men who need something different." She grew pensive. "And you know, I think I'm beginning to believe in the ability of men to know I have unusual talents. I hardly ever get a trick who just wants to plain old fuck or suck. I wonder how they can tell just by looking at me, maybe having a drink with me, that I'm willing to do the things they want? I mean, hardly any guy comes right out and says he wants weird things until we're safely behind a closed door. And I certainly can't tell by looking at them that they're kooks."
She looked somewhere around twenty-five and had a pretty, friendly face with brown eyes and-auburn hair. Probably five feet two, she weighed around a hundred and sixty. Debbie came from a big family. "There were nine of us kids, and my dad was a real idiot. He drank a lot, and didn't have much ambition. Most of us left school as soon as we were old enough to get away with it, and went to work in restaurants or something. I was going to be sixteen in May when I left home. Didn't even finish out the school term. My mother just took things as they came. She tried to get us to stick around and finish school, to make something of ourselves, but that little town we lived in didn't offer much in the line of part time work and I was just like all the rest of my brothers and sisters. I hated going to school in hand me downs, never having any spending money. Couldn't even go with the rest of the kids after school to get a soda. I think the thing that grabbed me the hardest was knowing my folks got welfare. All the rest of the kids around school knew which ones got their school lunches free. They knew we got money from the welfare people for groceries, too."
Debbie had seen an ad in a newspaper asking for go-go dancers. "Not our town, of course. We didn't have anything like that, because it was a very small town, and most of the people are pretty hard-nosed against that kind of thing. But I kept looking at that ad in the newspaper and wondering if I would stand a chance of getting a job as a go-go dancer. I thought I could do it as well as anybody else, even if I was fat."
She said she'd always been fat, even as a baby. She kept looking at that ad, so one day she just stole the money from her mother's purse to pay for bus fare to the city where the ad was running. She was hired, and before long started dancing topless.
"The go-go craze began to dwindle, and I started sleeping with different men, and they'd pay me." She gravitated to the brothel where she's been for the past three years. "Oh, it's all right. They treat you pretty good there and I don't have to take much shit from the customers."
Debbie's mother thinks she is working in a factory. She sends her mother money once a month. She said another sister is a hooker in Chicago. "She never gets any Johns that want the things they ask me for. Take Clarence, for instance."
Clarence has a five-parlor edifice in a southwestern state. He showed Debbie a picture of his place during their initial meeting, and she said he was very proud of it. The establishment has been in the family for four generations, but it was only after Clarence took over that the original building where his great-grandfather first started out was refurbished and the addition put on. Until then, the memorial home had only one small parlor and one large one. He also told her his son is going to come in with him and help him run the business as soon as he graduates from undertaking school and gets his license.
According to Debbie, Clarence hinted around about his sexual preference before they went to her room. Brenda had one room of the section of the hotel where the hookers were set up for a bar, which is where the men could look the girls over and take their choice. Clarence gravitated to Debbie and started talking. He told her he didn't like the usual run of the mill kind of sex. He could get all he wanted of that at home. She said she'd try to please him. He said she might not be so agreeable when she found out what he really wanted.
She laughed. "Like I told you, I get all the freaks and weirdos. But I never had a guy tell me he couldn't do it in a bed before, not even with his wife. They do it on the living room sofa, and not very often."
Clarence said, after they were inside her room, "We've got to go out."
She asked why.
He said, "I can't get any good out of it inside a room. I got to be where there are people."
So he took her to a restaurant and ordered coffee and dessert. "I sat across from him in a booth. There were people all around. It was a real busy time of night. And that old bastard said that was the place, can you imagine that? I said, shit, I couldn't lay down across this table and fuck. He said he didn't want that, and if I'd just keep my mouth shut he'd explain. He told me to sit real still and spread my legs apart. I told him I didn't see how he could do any good there. Not unless his cock was three feet long. I was wearing pantyhose and all, too. But he said for me just to do like he told me, so I did, and pretty soon he put his hand under the table and I felt something make a zzzzzzz kind of noise down at the crotch of my pantyhose. I kept looking all around to see if anybody was noticing, but apparently nobody was looking. He had a knife. Cut out the crotch of my pantyhose clean as a whistle.
"Okay, so then he takes his hand and starts pulling on my pussy hair. I told him to stop that. It hurt. He said he wouldn't do it for very long and for a hundred dollars he guessed he had a right to pull a little pussy hair. And honest, he didn't do it very long. When he stopped pulling hair, he finger-fucked me, only I just thought he was finger-fucking me, because all of a sudden I knew he wasn't using his finger. See, he had both his hands on the table and he was eating strawberry shortcake as nice as you please. So I figured I was getting a toe-fuck.
"After a while, but before either one of us had finished the stuff he ordered, he told me to slip out of my shoes and start playing with his cock with my feet. I thought, boy, this is just what I need, but I went ahead and did it, because in my business more than most, the customer is always right. Well it wasn't too bad. Clarence wasn't an old man. He just looked that way. And he had a cock on him, I'll say that for him. Pretty good-sized and hard. He wanted me to use both feet and jerk him off.
"I thought it would take a while, but you know, he shot off about two minutes after I started using the soles of my feet on him. Shot right off onto my feet. Funny thing, too. I could feel it when it spasmed. Like, I knew when he was getting ready to come. Just then the waitress came over and filled up our coffee cups, when Clarence was in the middle of shooting off. He groaned a little and the waitress asked if he was all right. He said he was fine-just having a little trouble with his gout.
"Before we left the restaurant, he took a paper napkin and wiped off the soles of my feet and his cock. Then he shoved a hundred-dollar bill across the table and tole me I was a good girl. And that was that."
This gave Debbie plenty of time to do another trick. Back at the hotel room where the bar was set up, she became involved with a sandy-haired man from one of the prairie states who came right out and asked her if she would perform a little something special for him. "Asked while we were having a drink together. I said I supposed I would. He said he wanted to come between my tits. I said hell, that wasn't anything unusual. I used to think these big jugs of mine would be a problem. Not that I'd want a pair of little titties that look like they belong on a boy, but I used to be ashamed of how big mine were. Nearly wore myself out taking exercises to make them shrink down some. But a lot of guys take one look at my tits and want fuck in between them. So I told this guy okay, and we went on up to my room.
"He told me to sit in a chair after I took off my clothes. He took his off, too. He went at it just about the same way all the men do who want to do a little titty-fucking, but he never went off. He stood up, you know. Stood up with his body pressed close to mine while I stayed in the chair. He shoved his cock in and out of the crease in between my tits. I usually get hold of them by the sides and press them together to make it a tight fit for the tricks, but this guy wanted to do it for himself. But he still didn't come, and I was beginning to get galled with that big whang of his sawing in and out and not doing anything. I told him he was going to have to let me use some baby oil or something. He said no, he didn't want that. I said, then he ought to let me suck him off.
"He said no, he never could come that way either. So I asked him what would make him come, figuring just ordinary fucking surely wouldn't do the trick, or he'd have said so by then. He got onto his knees and whanged off right on the floor, just like he'd been holding his gush back all that time."
By then, Debbie was tired and went to bed for the night. At ten that morning her telephone rang. It was Brenda, asking if she felt like doing a morning trick. She said she felt fine, and before long a man who said his name was Harley stood there with a big grin all over his face when she opened the door to his knock.
She let him in. He had very thoughtfully brought her a glass of orange juice, two cups of coffee and some sweet rolls he'd had warmed and swimming in butter. While she ate, he told her he just adored big women. "He was a tall, skinny guy. Looked like a good strong wind would blow him away. But he sure could fuck. You know, I liked that guy. He didn't want anything far out, all he wanted to do was fuck and he did it on top and he kept both hands on my tits all the time he was hunching away. Took him about ten minutes and I enjoyed every minute of it. I came too, and he could tell I wasn't faking it."
Debbie said he learned afterwards, while they were talking and drinking coffee, that the cathouse where she works is only two hundred miles from the city where Harley has his funeral parlor. "So he can get up to see me once in a while." Her pretty face was flushed with delight. She looked forward to Harley's visits. "It sure was nice to have an ordinary man for a change. You want me to tell you about some of the guys that ask for me special when I'm at the house? I'm talking about the ones who ask for something different, because word got around that I'll do almost anything."
I said I'd love to hear whatever she wanted to tell me. She launched into a description of a man I'll call Herman. "He's just about the best looking man I ever saw in my life. Looks a little like pictures I've seen of Tyrone Power, but of course he died before my time. Well, Herman has a little gadget he brings along. It's his own invention and anybody can see that he's put a lot of thought on it. He took these ball bearings, see? New ones that were still real shiny, right from the factory. Then he punched holes in them all the way through like putting a hole through a bead. Then he strung a nylon cord through them. There are twelve all strung together, but each one has a knot in the nylon in between it and the next one. They're about a half-inch apart. And they're about as big around as-oh, say about the size of a marble like kids play with. Maybe not that big.
"What Herman wants is to take off his pants and underpants, nothing else. He leaves on his shirt and suit coat, even his necktie. And shoes and socks, too. Never did find out why he wants to keep most of his clothes on. He comes to see me about once a week, always carrying along this string of ball bearings. Has them right there in his pocket and almost as soon as he's inside the room he starts taking them out of his pocket and getting an erection I can see right through his pants, because it sticks right out there.
"It's always the same for Herman. As soon as he's got his pants and underpants off, he gets on his knees at the side of my bed and falls face down across it. He raises his rear end up and I know what to do. I take this jelly and grease up his ass. Then I take some more and grease up the ball bearings. Herman doesn't say a word and neither do I. I just start with the first ball bearing and put it in there. They slide real easy with that stuff on them. Herman never moves a muscle, but sometimes he sort of sighs a little like it feels good.
"One by one, I put every one of those ball bearings in. Then Herman begins to count out loud. One hundred and one. That's the first thing he says, so I yank out the last ball bearing I put in. There's plenty of string left over. Then he says one hundred and two. So I yank out the second one. And I keep on doing it until we get down to the very last one, and when he says one hundred and twelve, I yank it out and jump astraddle of his back. As soon as I'm on his back, he starts bucking like a wild horse and I know he's shooting his wad. I have to hang on pretty hard because he's strong and big and when he's coming he really ramrods, only he doesn't ramrod into anything. He won't even let the bed touch his cock. Has to shoot off into the air, but it takes all those things done, and in perfect order, for him to shoot off at all. He doesn't want me to put my hand on his cock, either. He told me so right from the beginning. Said if I did, it'd spoil everything.
"After a while he stands up, and that's my signal to slide off his back. He looks down at the blob of come on the floor by the bed and kind of shakes his head a little, like maybe he's not too pleased with it. Then he gives me my fee and leaves as soon as he can get into his pants. Never says another word."
Another girl Debbie knows told her that Herman is a mathematical genius who's spent some time in a mental institution. "Corrine is real smart. She reads all the time and knows a lot of things most people don't know a thing about. She said she bet Herman would probably have to go back to the mental hospital if he didn't have somebody to go to like me-somebody he can trust, you know? Corrine told me his mental problem started a few years earlier when he got so he couldn't walk up a flight of steps without counting them as he climbed. Had to count all the buttons on his own clothes, then before long he got so he had to count the buttons on other people's clothes. Then he had to count cars on the streets, stars in the sky ... Jesus! A person don't know how lucky they are. But I'm glad it helps Herman keep his head on straight to come to the place and get his nuts off ... if that's what helps him."
Compared with what Debbie had to say, the other girls who had attended the April Funeral Directors Convention had experienced nothing out of the ordinary. Francine's description is typical:
"My john was a middle-aged man, and not interesting. He wanted me to get on top and said his wife wouldn't ball that way. She wants to have sex once a week, every Saturday night. He said she always comes, but she doesn't want it any oftener than that. He also said she doesn't take her clothes off in front of him, sleeps with a nightgown on, and won't let him touch her pussy. I bet she doesn't come. I bet she just tells him she does, puts on a show for him, and he doesn't know the difference. Except for his wife and a young girl he had before he was married, he's never been around except for an occasional hooker, so how the hell does he know the difference when a woman comes or not? He even thought I did!"
Polly: "I turned two tricks last night. The first one wanted a blow job and the other one went to sleep on me. I didn't care because I was tired and had had too much to drink anyway. This morning he woke me up and stuck his cock in. No foreplay, nothing. I didn't even have a chance to use any jelly because I was sound asleep and the last thing I wanted was sex. I pulled away from him and said I had to go to the bathroom. He seemed put out about that, but that wasn't any lie. I did have to go to the bathroom. While I was in there, I squirted some K.Y. jelly up inside my cunt because I've got a tight one and it hurts like hell whenever I get screwed dry. He was just an ordinary fuck, not good and not bad. Just your run-of-the-mill dude who goes to a convention and feels like he deserves to have some strange tail."
CHAPTER TWELVE
The August Convention of Funeral Directors was bigger than the one held in April. Maybe the fact that the majority came from a different part of the country had something to do with the difference in attitude. To me, there's always been a freewheeling quality about southern men. They're easier for me to talk with, and I can relate to them far better than most men from other parts of the country. I suspect this is because of my own southern heritage. I know these men better than I do others. I understand them. But even so, I think Brenda's decision to keep everything dignified might have a dampening effect on the men enjoying themselves with hookers during conventions, maybe especially the Funeral Directors.
Lonesome Lou is a long-time friend. He has an extensive collection of books, including every one I've ever written. His pornography collection is the envy of other collectors.
Lou has been a widower for almost thirty years. He enjoys introducing me, "This is Ellen Evans. She writes dirty books." He never says a word about all the mysteries and gothics and science fiction stuff I've written, but I don't mind. I think he introduces me in that manner in order to shock people. He does a lot of other things that some would consider eccentric, even disgraceful. For instance, he keeps a lady friend in a lavish apartment about twenty miles from the sleepy little southern town where he's the most successful mortician in the county. She's an attractive woman with a great personality, and adores Lou, but he gets angry when his friends tell him he ought to marry her. He answers that he's already been married and didn't much care for it, so he sees no sense in going that route again. At the time of his wife's death, they were separated.
Lonesome Lou isn't the least bit lonesome. People started calling him that long before the accident that took his estranged wife. Long before they were married, in fact. I think he used to imitate a radio character back in the thirties who had that name, but I'm not really sure. At any rate, he still does imitations of famous personalities, and if he hadn't been satisfied with becoming an undertaker he might have gone into the entertainment field and been quite successful.
Lou invited me to the convention. "You can go as my secretary. That way you won't put the crimps on anybody. Lenore will go too, so you don't have to worry about your reputation." (Said with a twinkle in his eyes, because he knows I'm never hampered from doing anything I want to out of fear of what people will think.)
Lenore always goes to the conventions with Lou. He never sees other women because he's perfectly satisfied with his lady-love. She's sixty. Lou is sixty-five.
We arrived at the convention center during a cloudburst. Before the rain, the heat had been overbearing but the storm brought in a cold front. All the women were shivering inside the beautifully decorated banquet hall, so the management turned off the air conditioning.
We sat at a table with five other prosperous looking morticians. They were all beyond middle age except for Steve, who was the son of Bert. Steve had recently graduated from mortician school, but he'd attended conventions before. He sat on my left and scowled a lot during dinner, which I took as a sign that he wasn't pleased at the idea of attending another convention. After a while he loosened up considerably, probably because of the incredible number of drinks he consumed. Turning to me, he said, "Look at that old bastard."
"Which one?"
"My father, the fool." Bert had left the table a few seconds earlier. He was heading toward a table full of gorgeous young girls, none of whom looked as if they prepared the dead for their final resting place.
"My stepmother is one of the most wonderful women in the world, but that old bastard doesn't appreciate her. She had to go up north to Ohio. Her mother has to have an operation, so she couldn't come along with Dad and keep him in line. I hate these conventions. All Dad ever does is whore around and get slobbery drunk. One of these days I'm going to tell the old creep he can't go to anymore conventions."
I made a sympathetic sound, and Steve gave me his life story.
His mother died when he was four, of complications following childbirth. His sister survived and married a funeral director. They live in Cincinnati. Old Bert married a sixteen-year-old girl three months after his wife died. "She took Dad for a ride," said his son. "He had to practically hock the business to keep her in cars and jewelry. One afternoon he caught her making out with a guy who used to drive the ambulance. They were going at it hot and heavy in the back, you know, where the stretcher is kept. It was hotter than hell that day and that was what caught the old man's attention, the noise of their bodies slapping up against each other. He booted her out, but she got another hunk of what little was left when she sued for divorce. Then Dad married Nancy June a few years later. She's a good looking woman, too good for him. Just as kind and considerate as can be, and she's been a fine mother to me and my sister. I was eleven when they got married.
"Nancy June had money of her own but Dad didn't know it when he fell in love with her. He knew her folks used to be pretty well off, but she'd been working as a nurse in a doctor's office for seven or eight years, so he figured she needed money. She got a divorce from her first husband. They weren't married very long. Don't know what happened between them, and she never did say. Anyway, Nancy June invested her money in the business, and helped the old man get back on his feet after he made such an ass of himself over that little bitch. A good woman like that and does he appreciate her? Just look at that old bastard. Can you believe a man of his age would mess around with hookers that way?"
Bert was in the process of selecting his girl before anybody else could get around to it. He put a proprietary hand on the shoulder of a cute little blonde. Steve informed me that the girl looked a lot like his first stepmother.
On my left, Lonesome Lou whispered into my ear. "By God, you met that boy less than twenty minutes ago, and already he's laid enough material on you so you could write a book about him and his family. You never said a single word." He bent forward so he could look at Steve. "Did you know this lady here who agreed to come to the convention as my secretary? Seein' as how I'm the incoming president of this organization, I figured I'd need a secretary. Mrs. Evans is an authoress."
I said, "Lou, don't use that word. Do you call a woman undertaker an undertakeress? Or a morticianess?"
He paid no attention, and my tart words didn't have the effect I'd hoped for, because he nodded his head sagely and said, "Yes sir. This little lady writes dirty books."
Steve's mouth opened slightly. Then he shut it and said, "Uh-well. Uh-that's very interesting." He got up and moved to another table.
Lenore's gentle voice brought Lou's hearty laughter to an abrupt end. "Now why on earth did you have to go and tell Steve that?"
Looking abashed, Lou defended himself. "Never did like that little idiot. You know, he wanted to be a preacher. Maybe he still does, but he doesn't want his old man's funeral home to get away from him, either. He's as tight as the skin on a potato, that boy. But just you wait till he gets wound up. You'll see that holier-than-thou attitude meltin' away like a June frost. Only he won't pay a hooker to take him to bed, you can bet on that.
No, he'll go out and get him a little high school girl from right here in town. Take her out and buy her a malted milk and screw her. His old man is twice the man that kid will ever be."
After the dinner, the incoming officers were duly installed and Lonesome Lou took his place on the platform. They took care of the business, then Lou spoke frankly, almost angrily. He said he was sorry to see so many books and articles being written about unethical practice among funeral directors. His big voice boomed out over the mike as he raised it and his face showed his distaste for the subject. Then he changed his expression and spoke solemnly, careful to choose just the right words.
"The hell of it is, men, a lot of undertakers are just plain greedy. So, in some cases, the charges against some of the people in our fine profession are justified."
Across from me, one of the morticians turned to another one and said in what he probably intended to be a whisper, "I got to get me a woman. That Lou acts like he's gettin' ready to stand up there all night long talkin' his head off. I never came to no damned convention to hear a lecture. I got me a hard-on."
Lou kept on talking. "Now, you take the matter of vaults. Over in my county there's a fella, not to mention any names, he tells folks it's a state law that you have to buy a vault when you get ready to bury your loved ones. Men, you know very well that's a damn lie."
Lenore sighed and said she wished Lou wouldn't get so folksy after he'd had a few drinks. "Listen to him get downright briar-patch as he goes along with his speech and keeps drinking."
"Now," Lou continued, "don't get me wrong. I'm not against a man makin' an honest livin'. And people that has the money and wants vaults, ought to have 'em. Concrete or metal, cheap or high-priced, it don't matter. And of course everybody knows they's some cemeteries around the country that demands a vault. We all know a grave will sink a lot deeper without a vault, but that's another thing. It just plain isn't right to tell folks a grave won't sink at all with one."
Behind me, a deep male voice spoke angrily. "Hell, Lou, most folks want a vault for their loved ones, especially here where just about everybody is a Baptist. You know goddamn good and well that almost everybody that goes to church believes when Judgement Day comes the angel is a-goin' to blow that horn and they're a-goin' to stand up and meet their Maker. How the hell they gonna do that if they ain't been properly protected from ground water and things like that? You take a casket with a good seal, why, even it won't withstand what goes on down there in the ground for more'n a couple hundred years-if that. So if that's me you was inferrin' has been makin' people believe they got to have a vault, why, I only done it out of Christian charity."
Lou put his two hands on the edge of the speaker's podium and gripped it hard. "Moss, if you got anything to say, you better do it with proper parliamentary procedure. You don't just speak out at a business meetin' this way. Anyway, you ain't got a Christian bone in your whole body. That's a hell of a thing for people to believe, anyway. When it comes right down to it, how the hell they gonna get out of a concrete or steel vault when they raise up from the dead? Did you ever consider that?"
"Now just a goddam minute," said the man named Moss. I turned around to see what he looked like. He had a red face and a fat body. "While we're callin' people liars and talkin' about unethical practices, how about a couple months ago when your ambulance drove up in front of my establishment and you come inside as big as you please and took a body that was rightfully mine? I got it fair and square, Lou, and you know it. Them three women and their brother come to my place a year ago and chose my place over your'n. That was when their daddy first took sick and told his young'uns to shop around for his funeral. He knowed he wasn't long for this world and he wanted ever'thang just so. Now, ever'thang was all arranged. I already embalmed that man and had him alyin' there on the table, gettin' ready to dress him up and put his teeth in when you come and snatch him right out from under my nose."
"Well, you old bone-picker!" Lou downed another triple rye and came down from the podium, bellowing at the top of his lungs. "I told you I had orders to come and get that old man, and I sure did, too!" He advanced on the fat man, trembling with rage. All the people in the huge banquet room were quiet as Lou came closer to the other mortician, until he was inches away from the other man's face, still yelling at the top of his lungs.
"You and your ilk are just exactly what I was a-talkin' about up there. What you done to those poor grievin' people that asked you kindly to lay out their father was typical. You went and told 'em that they had to have that high-priced steel vault if they was bound to bury him at Hickory Grove Cemetery, and they knowed better. And you went and told 'em that the casket they looked at a year ago had gone up two hundred dollars. All that, Moss, and they'd of taken it layin' down. But was you satisfied? Hell, no, you wasn't satisfied. You went and told them three women and their brother that the state law demanded they lay their father out in a new suit, and you gouged them folks another three hundred dollars for a suit of clothes you went over to Mobile and paid five lousy dollars for at the Salvation Army Store! Now that was too much, Moss. They'd of never knowed the difference if a neighbor lady hadn't been in the Salvation Army store when you bought that suit-"
Somebody said, "Gentlemen, gentlemen." Someone else came between Lonesome Lou and his irate adversary. After things calmed down a little, Lou went back to the speaker's platform and told everyone he was sorry, that he guessed he didn't want to be the president of the organization after all. Most of the people present tried to get him to change his mind, but he was embarrassed.
Confusion reigned for a while until someone had the presence of mind to suggest that the past president act as the Acting President until things simmered down some, but there were no' more speeches. Even so, nobody seemed interested in leaving. I circulated around and listened to people telling one another that they'd certainly never seen anything like this before. Most of the conventioneers took Lou's side, but a few felt he'd gone too far.
At one table a discussion was in full sway about something that had to do with casket lids. A thin man with a shock of white hair said he'd like to see all casket lids interchangeable. "You know, they ought to make the lids fit every casket that is manufactured. That way, we can take 'em off and use 'em over and over again. Who the hell is goin' to know the difference once the corpse is buried?"
That idea took me a few seconds of thought. Finally, I realized that the mortician was saying if all caskets were manufactured with universal lids, the bereaved would only think their departed were buried with a lid on the casket. Before the lowering into the earth procedure, the funeral director could remove the lid and use it again and again. Mourners don't usually stick around to see the casket interred. The funeral directors lead them away while a bulldozer stands by-waiting until family and friends have left the cemetary.
I moved on, determined to hang around the grave and make sure both halves of any casket I had anything to do with remained intact.
A table full of delegates from a state that had recently had a gravediggers' strike sympathized with three solemn-faced men from a town where a new crematorium had just opened for business. "And me with all that money sunk into mausoleums," said one man. "And there them crematorium people are, spendin' money like it was water advertisin' over the T.V. about crematin' folks instead of puttin' them in the ground like the Lord intended. It's them bastard ecologists that got people all hopped up about burnin' people up when they die instead of buryin' them. Scare tactics, that's what it is. Why, we still got plenty of room to put folks in the ground decent-like."
Over at a corner table a group of quiet men kept putting their heads together for long periods of time, then breaking it up with uproarious laughter. Lenore tapped me on the shoulder. "They're telling jokes. Let's join them. Lou is getting as drunk as a skunk in an attempt to drown his shame."
The speaker was a smallish man with grey sideburns and what looked like a very expensive dark grey wig. If it hadn't been for a nervous habit he had of pushing it back so far that it almost fell off, nobody would have known it wasn't real. He said, "Well, did any of you men hear the one about this house of prostitution?"
Exuberantly, the rest of the men told the speaker to go ahead. Nobody had heard it.
"Well, this place, it was kind of different. Up at the top, on the third floor, they had these hundred-dollar call girls."
A very drunk undertaker at the next table kept muttering, "Bring on the girls, dammit. Bring on the girls."
"So this man that came into this house of prostitution said to the madam that he couldn't hack that kind of money, and didn't they have something a little cheaper. So she said she had some fifty-dollar girls on the second floor. Would one of them suit his pocketbook? But he said no. He didn't have that kind of money either."
Bert, the father of young Steve, created a commotion across the room when he stuck his hands down the front of a good-looking brunette's dress. She was the wife of a funeral director from Chattanooga, and her husband was not pleased. Bert made matters worse by yelling drunkenly, "Sorry, old buddy. I thought she was one of them hustlers."
"Well, finally," said the man who was holding forth at the joke table, "the madam found out this guy only had five bucks. So she said she had something real nice for him down in the basement. But she said to not expect any conversation. Well, so he went on down there like the madam said and found this woman layin' there without a stitch on and he gets on and-well, he got right busy. Never said nothin' to her and she never said noth-in' to him. He got done and by then his eyes had adjusted to the little old stingy light that hung down from the middle of the basement ceiling. Must have been a ten watt bulb. And he saw this white stuff comin' from the girl's mouth and he thinks she's havin' some kind of fit. So he runs upstairs and gets ahold of the madam and tells her the girl in the basement is frothin' at the mouth.
"So the madam, she hollers over to this big, burly man that was hangin around the place, 'Hey, Alfie, call the morgue and tell 'em to send over another girl. The one in the basement is full!"
Lenore gagged. She said, "When men get drunk, they'll laugh at anything."
The atmosphere was charged with excitement. Men whose wives were along glanced wistfully toward the tables where the hookers were seated. Their wives all wore the same expression; a kind of smiling determination as they propelled their men firmly toward the exits.
The vast room echoed with the laughter and high-spirited conversation of the rest of the conventioning undertakers. They gravitated toward the pretty girls with smiles as they clapped one another on the back. A little bitty dried up looking old man kept saying in a high-pitched voice, "I got to get me some of that pussy." His voice rang out over all the rest. He chose a tall, willowy blonde who wore her hair parted down the middle and pinned in a severe bun at the nape of the neck. He listed to one side as he held his girl's hand, giggling and strutting his way to the door. The girl looked down at the little old man from a good foot higher. As they went through the doorway she patted him on the top of his thinning head and winked at the couple in back of her.
I continued to move around the room where I overheard bits of conversations.
* * *
"Sugar, you got the finest pair of tits I ever seen in my life. How'd you like to spend a little time with me, huh?"
"Sure, honey. I'd just love to."
"I got the biggest prick this side of heaven. And I just love to fuck. I bet you never seen anything like what I got, sugah. You think you could see your way clear to kindly-uh, cut your price a little, seein' as how you're goin' to get somethin' you nevah had before in all your born days?"
"Baby, I couldn't do that. It isn't up to me, you know. I just work here."
* * *
"Listen, honey, you got to understand somethin' right off the bat. Ah'm not the type of individual that diddles a gal and pays. Somethin' like that-well, to be puffeckly frank, it's agin' mah principles. But still and all, you'all sho' do somethin' fo' me. Just lookin' at you makes the old juices stir aroun' inside a me. Reckon we could come to a little agreement of some kind? Tell you what, honey. A person cain't start thinkin' about how they want to be put away too soon. Now, ah know a purty woman like you, with youah good health and all, don't want to think about that time we all got to face sooner or later. But jus' the same, it's only common sense to think of the future. Ah was thin-kin' about maybe you comin' over to mah funeral parlor one of these days real soon and pickin' you out the finest casket ah got on the place. Ah was thinkin' maybe we could sort of-"
"No dice, buster. It's cash on the line, or nothing."
"Baby, you crush me. Have you got any idea what one of mah finest caskets, all hermetically sealed, costs?"
"Fuck off, Mac. Anyway I'm gonna be cremated."
"How about your mother, then? Surely you'll want to put away yore pore old mama in a nice-"
"You cheap old fart, you, I ain't gonna do no trick with you in exchange for no casket. Get out of my face."
Two men, talking earnestly together, the girls they'd chosen yawning behind their hands. "So I said, Lou, you're carryin' this ethics bit too damned far. I don't think there's anything wrong with a funeral director telling a grieving widow that if she thought anything of her husband she'll lay him away nice. I tell you. The trouble with Lou is, he's already made his pile. Now he's getting all full of the milk of human kindness. Anyway, you take a widow and you let her go ahead and buy a cheap little old casket with a fabric-covered wooden box, you aren't doing her any favor. Pretty soon she'll get to stewing and fretting about it. She'll get ashamed of herself, because she'll know everybody in town had something to say about the cheap funeral she had for her old man. It'll affect her whole future, because there's gonna come a time when that little widow is going to want to-well, you know-start seeing other men. And she won't feel right about thinking about getting married to someone else when she knows she didn't do her first husband right. Besides, how's the second husband gonna feel about her since most women outlive their men folks anyway? I tell you, we've got to think of the psychology of this thing."
Drunkenly, "Yessir, ole buddy, you're dead right. Dead right, yessiree! Got to think of the psychology. An' we got to come up with a new gimmick, ain't no two ways about it. Personally, I never did think Lonesome Lou ought to be president of this here organization, cause just like you said, he already made a pot full of money."
A rotund man of around sixty who wore a wilting red rose in his lapel climbed on a chair. From there he stepped up onto one of the long, cloth-covered tables. With a cherubic smile, he looked all around at the girls who had not been approached. Then, at the top of his lungs, he yelled, "I got to have me some scunch, right now, and I'll pay double to the girl that'll do it right here on the table."
Someone said it was a good thing all the respectable women were out of the banquet hall, and someone else tried to shush the man up. The Acting President strode quickly over to the table where the happy man kept making his offer and said, "Bob, get your ass down from there. Who you think you're kiddin', anyway? You couldn't do it right here, out in the open like this, in front of everybody. You couldn't even get it up."
The rotund man unzipped his fly, reached in and took out his bulging cock, which he aimed at the Acting President. "Don't you bend over, or you got yourself a rim job."
A small brunette separated herself from two or three men who had been coming on to her and climbed up on the table where she stood at the man's side and faced him. "I'll take you up on that, honey."
"Now there's a woman with guts," he said, and dropped his pants to expose himself in all his glory. The brunette asked him how he wanted it. Lou came over and hustled Lenore and me out of the room. I looked back. Lou asked me if I wanted to be turned into a pillar of salt.
Over and over, he kept saying, "Goddam. Goddam. Goddam." Finally, when we were outside, he said, "And I thought I made a fool of myself!"
Lenore, who apparently knew the man on the table, said, "What Fergie is doing is a grave undertaking."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Before I left the area I met two more girls.
Mary Alice was a broad-shouldered girl with long auburn hair, green eyes, and a lot of freckles. She had a nice pair of breasts, a slender waistline and pretty legs. At sixteen, Mary Alice decided she didn't want to stick around home and listen to her parents argue any more. She left, and disappeared from the face of the earth as far as her mother and father were concerned. "If they tried to find me, I doubt if they expended much effort, because from my earliest years I remember Mother telling me I was the cause of all her problems. She got knocked up and had to marry my dad, which I had nothing to do with. My dad was seldom pleasant to me, but he didn't blame all his troubles on me ... at least not to my face."
From working as a waitress in a greasy spoon, Mary Alice gravitated to doing some skin flicks. "The pay was good, but the people making the movies expected too much. I faced it head on. Decided if I was going to fuck for money, I might as well become an honest whore instead of a dishonest one. Balling in front of the camera for pay is whoring ... maybe marriage is, too, in a way."
Mary Alice seldom works anything but conventions and she belongs to a traveling group run by a man named Cicero. "Cicero has twelve or fifteen regular girls in his stable. We go where the conventions are, where the money is."
I asked her if she had a favorite group of men who come to the conventions. Her lilting laughter rang out and her green eyes sparkled. When she stopped laughing, she said, "This'll grab you. I think I like undertakers best. Want me to tell you a story about my favorite John?"
I said I did, and she launched into one of the most deliciously humorous episodes I ever heard.
"He was a nice, kind of elderly man. I'll call him Derek. Funeral parlors, or at least the people who run them, are a little like doctors and lawyers. Most often you'll find the business has been in the family for a long, long time. Derek was the third generation in his particular family to own the mortuary, and he was proud to be part of the tradition.
"One night when I was with him for the night, he said he was tired and didn't want to fuck. All he wanted to do was talk. I said that was okay with me and I knew there wouldn't be any question about Derek paying the fee because he was kind and generous. He said he wanted to talk to me about something he'd never been able to tell another soul ... and when he opened his mouth and began on the subject, I could sort of see why he didn't. I mean, the town where he lived wasn't all that big and he'd married a high society lady who brought up the children to believe they were a notch or two above the common folk. Anyway, here's what he said:
"I'm going to start it with the first thing I remember. I must have been about three years old. My old man was driving a Model T Ford. He thought he was big shit on a stick. And I thought I was little shit on a stick sitting there beside him. I don't know where we went, but I can remember what the place looked like. There were trees, lots of them, and chickens running around in the back yard. My dad went inside the house and there were a couple of girls on the porch where he left me. I was on a swing, one of those porch swings that's hung on chains and squeaks and creaks when you swing back and forth on it.
"To me, those girls were big girls. In their teens, I think, and they had me in the middle between them, swinging on the back porch. Every now and then I'd hear this sort of high-pitched wailing coming from inside the house. The girls swung and giggled fit to kill whenever the keening started up inside. One of them said my dad sure must be in good fucking shape, and the other one said she guessed he was just the same as always, and it wasn't until a long time after that when I got to talking to the old men around town that I found out my dad had a regular route of women he serviced. Widows and schoolteachers and the librarian, married women who had husbands who couldn't take care of them, the grocery owner's wife and the guy's wife that owned the hardware store. He took care of them all.
"Daddy used to tell me that ass was the only thing there was. 'What an ass,' he'd say when a pretty woman swung by. Only my dad wasn't saying it in admiration, or speculating on how it would be to have it. He was saying it with knowledge most of the time.
"At any rate, there I was, with those girls, and me only about three years old. Maybe four. One of them took my pants off. I was wearing a little sailor suit. The girl that took my pants off sort of came down on my little cock and kissed it. I tell you, it made me feel good! I got sort of scared and a little sick at the same time. I thought I would surely die if she didn't stop, and then I got to thinking I would surely die if she did stop. She started sucking on it, and damned if it didn't get hard. I can remember how absolutely delightful that felt. I don't know if I shot off or not, but the next thing I remember is the other one doing it to me. They took turns back and forth until they heard my dad coming out of the house.
"After that I tried to get that good feeling to come back to my little cock, but it was no use. I went around beating my meat for the next few years, watching the white stuff come spurting out the end. But I never found anything that made me feel as good as those girls did.
"One Sunday afternoon when I was about twelve, my mother took me out to a farm where some people had been burnt out. While the men were all working on the new house and the women were busy sewing and cooking, I was making out behind the barn with the farmer's daughter. After that I knew what I wanted more than anything else out of life-ass, plenty of ass. When my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas that year, I forgot and told her the truth. 'Someone to screw,' I said, and she nearly had a stroke right on the spot. My dad laughed like hell."
"Hello, Mary Alice," came a husky voice from behind me.
"Oh, hi, Helena. Meet Ms. Evans. She's writing a book, all about convention girls. I'm going to be in it!"
"Really? Do you think I could be in it, too, Mr.-?"
"Evans," I repeated. "Sure ... join us. I'll be glad to hear anything you have to say."
Helena's hair was so black that it was almost blue. It reminded me of the old Wonder Woman comic books my daughter used to read when she was small. She wore very little makeup, and her nearly violet eyes shone from behind long dark lashes. She was tall and trim, not too busty, but perfectly in proportion. She wore a pair of tight-fitting bell-bottomed levis and a midriff blouse that tied beneath her obviously braless breasts.
"I had absolutely no intention of ever getting into this business," she began, resting her chin on folded hands. In fact, four years ago I considered myself happily married and planned to start a family. However, that happy marriage lasted only six months. It was then that I discovered my husband was living with another woman whenever he was out of town on business. He is an electrical supplies salesman and does a lot of traveling.
"I tell you, I came awfully close to having a nervous breakdown. I mean, there was absolutely no clue that Bill had another woman, especially so early in our marriage. She didn't know about me, either. She thought Bill was single. I guess she nearly cracked up too. She was planning on marrying him, I'm sure. The rotten bastard.
"Anyway, when I finally got over being so terribly hurt, I started to miss the sex Bill and I had. That part of our marriage was good, almost too good. I decided one dismal evening that the only thing to do was go out and find myself someone. I chose a little bar in the center of town for my hunting ground."
He had told her his name was John Jones. Since she had told him hers was Jane Smith, she didn't believe him. Neither did she enjoy the sex. He was brutal with her. The minute he closed the hotel room door, he started using abusive language. Before she'd even had a chance to take off her clothes, he'd thrown her across the bed and raised up her dress, slapping her across the cheeks of the buttocks as soon as he got her panties down. He'd objected to the pantyhose, saying, "A man can't get at a pussy through those things, girl." His big paw held her down while he ripped the pantyhose off with his fingernails. She could hear them tearing and feel the runs like bugs crawling down her legs. She protested about his rough treatment, and he'd laughed. "Listen, baby, all women like to get shoved around. Don't tell me. Besides, you take all kinds of chances when you start whoring around."
"But I'm not...."
"Shit, baby, don't hand me that crap about not being one of the regulars who work that bar. I suppose the next thing you'll tell me is that you've never done anything like this before in your life, or you got an old granny, and the only reason you're out in the street hustling your ass is because you have to buy her medicine."
He proceeded to tear off her hose and abuse her verbally, and followed this by slapping her ass, and now and then her face. She felt like crying, but managed not to, partly because she was too angry to cry. He talked all the time. She didn't have a chance to get a word in edgewise. He told her about the way his father had treated his mother. Rough. And said that was the reason the old lady stuck around. When Helena tried to answer him, he lifted her off the bed and threw her to the floor. She tried to struggle, to scream, anything to get away from him. By then she was sure she had run up against a crazy man. And he was so big, taller and heavier than average, so strong, she could do little to protect herself. She was beginning to fear for her life.
Certainly Helena had heard of anal sex, but she had never been interested in doing it that way. The idea was frightening to her as well as repugnant. But there was no way she could get away from the huge man who pinned her down on the floor and took her from the rear. She thought at first that she would faint from pain. The man had been so eager to get at her that she'd not even seen his cock. He'd moved fast, but from the feel of it, she knew it was very big.
"Oh, don't!" The cry was choked from her lips as he slapped her across the side of the head. "Please ... please!"
"Listen, baby, you take a tore-out, beat-up whore like you, you think I could even feel it if I shot my wad in your cunt?"
By then she was sobbing and trembling from head to foot, aware of nothing but the consuming pain that ripped through her like a searing flame. He ground his huge cock into her. She was helplessly impaled. When she remembered that the hotel was advertised as being completely soundproof, she knew it would do her no good to scream. Further, if she did, he would hit her again. He rammed deeper inside her and she could feel her sphincter ring bursting open again. She had felt it start to rip when he first entered her, and then there had been a slight lessening of the pain. She'd been in the process of drawing a shaky breath when he'd made another lunge into her. She could feel the ripping sensation in her tight anus.
For long stretches of time she seemed to hover in a semiconscious state, awakening to vicious stabs of incredible torture. It went on and on and on. Sometimes she was more aware of the pain than other times. Once or twice she began to get the hang of it, because she felt a slight answering response. But then he would give it a stirring sensation, moving his huge cock around and around inside her, and again the burning gashes of pain racked her. She panted and whimpered, praying it would soon be over.
Finally, just when she thought she surely would die if he didn't hurry and get it over with, she felt an increase in his speed, heard his breath make a kind of whistling sound. It would soon be over, she told herself. It was all she could do to keep from biting her lips and drawing blood. With one final lunge that she felt would surely kill her, he speared deeply inside her and she felt his hot semen squirting into her rectum. He was holding her by the hip bones, drawing deeply agonizing breaths as he half-leaned over her buttocks and back. It was only after he withdrew that she felt a new and dizzying place where she'd been hurt. Her knees had been ground into the rough carpet so hard that all the skin was rubbed off.
The man who had called himself John Jones was suddenly drawing her to her feet. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it, baby?" He sneered, looking at her tear-streaked face. "That's what I always like about whores. They can sure put on one hell of an act. But you liked it, I could tell. You must have come all over the place. Takes a real man to make a woman come with his prick shoved up her ass ... especially when she's a whore. You want to clean it up for me, baby?"
"Go to hell."
He grinned at her. "Spunky bitch, aren't you?" He seized her breasts, twisting the nipples so brutally that she was forced to the floor. Her raw knees burned as they touched the carpet. She knew she would die before she would put that thing of his in her mouth after it had been in her rectum; but she realized that was what he meant when he said to clean it. When she saw him getting to his knees, she thought she might have to die, at that, because he was offering her his limp cock as though it were a banquet. Well, he had called her a spunky bitch. Either she had guts, or she didn't. If she did, she had at least to try to keep that flaccid, wormy-looking cock out of her mouth.
She was glad she still had her dress on. Her shoes and purse could stay where they were for all she cared. Using her head, she started sweet-talking him. He beamed, saying something sickening, like he knew she'd come around sooner or later, and if there was anything he liked it was a girl who showed some spunk, as long as they didn't carry it too far.
She grabbed his prick in one hand and his balls in the other, twisting them the way he had twisted her nipples. She thought about the way her anus had felt while he was bludgeoning in and out of it, and gave his cock the benefit of her fingernails, wrenching his balls as hard as she could. While she had the advantage, she jumped up from the floor, turning loose of his appendages. He had not turned the latch on the door nor put the night chain in place. She was thankful for that, because he was no more than a foot behind her when she let herself out the door and ran down the hall. She figured he would be a little too sensitive to run down the hall after her without his pants, but just in case he jumped into them in a hurry and came after her, she didn't bother waiting for the elevator. There were six flights of stairs, but Helena was running so fast she didn't notice.
Afraid to stop in the lobby for fear the man had some connection with the hotel, Helena ran four blocks down the street to a restaurant where she was known.
Helena looked at me, bringing herself back to the present. She shrugged her shoulders. "So, you see, after that experience I just decided to go ahead and be a prostitute. I didn't think anyone could degrade me any more than I had been at the hands of that awful man. I actually think I get out to get even with him, and with my ex. I was going to show every man I could find that he couldn't get the best of me. And besides that, they'd have to pay me.
"I'm not quite so bitter now, though. In fact, I like most of my tricks, especially the undertakers. They're all so clean and mannerly. The only one I won't take to bed any more is a guy I'll call Max. He was one of my first customers after I started working with Cicero. He likes to be whipped ... with a regular bullwhip. In the frame of mind that I started this business, he was a perfect customer. I enjoyed every minute of whipping him, but I don't like to do that any more. I guess I'm getting mellow in my old age."
I smiled, and turned off my tape recorder. "And that can't be any more than, say, twenty-four, right?"
"Exactly, and I figure I'm good for at least another four years. By that time I should have quite a nest egg built up for myself." She looked at her watch. "Gotta run. I have an afternoon undertaker today."
I couldn't help laughing. "Well, thank you both," I said.
PART FOUR
Bits & Pieces
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They were at a table in a hotel coffee shop, a couple of attractive women who might have stopped in for an evening meal together because their husbands were out of town-not much sense in cooking a meal for one.
Nothing about either one of the women was outstanding. Not the way they dressed or wore their hair; not even their mannerisms set them apart from the other women at the surrounding tables.
The doctor had told me the hotel was preparing for a convention. He felt proud of his role of convention chairman and especially pleased that the doctors had agreed to come to the small, out-of-the-way resort town where the hotel and the tourist trade was the main source of revenue.
A G.P., this doctor is not unhappy about going to faraway, exotic places. Twice each year he takes his wife to South America, Puerto Rico, France, sometimes Las Vegas. Wherever the A.M.A. has its convention, he is always very much in evidence. But his pleasure over being responsible for a thousand doctors converging on the city was twofold. When the big, sprawling hotel was in financial difficulties about twelve years ago, he and five friends purchased it. They've had an uphill battle all the way, and until just two years ago the six stockholders often considered giving what appeared to be a white elephant away to a charitable organization.
"It was a rundown old place, and every time we turned around, something else needed extensive repair or had to be replaced. Eighteen hundred rooms. Just think of the linen bill alone! Strangely enough, the house was overflowing with guests ten years before my friends and I bought it. Where we made our mistake was not knowing exactly what we were getting into. Of course that's where most people go wrong when they're getting ready to invest in something that appeals to them for romantic reasons ... and that's why I became interested in the hotel. My grandmother and grandfather stayed here on their honeymoon. When my father married, that's where he took my mother. I guess you might say I'm a traditionalist because I did the same thing when I was married. It's such a picturesque old building, and the surrounding area is beautiful. The food was excellent, the service good ... but we were told that mismanagement caused the previous owners to lose their shirts.
"It wasn't mismanagement. It was the townspeople. But of course it took us a long time to find out the real reason why the hotel went broke. Here's what happened. Back in the fifties, the town voted in a minister to act as City Manager. I suppose they were on a morality kick. The new City Manager kicked out all the prostitutes. Ran them out of the hotel and out of town, even out of the county. So the conventions were no longer interested in coming here."
For the past two years, the doctor and his five friends have seen a healthy return on their investment. He said, "If you go to the coffee shop at about four or five o'clock, you'll see a couple of the girls. They came early because they happened to be in the vicinity. The rest won't arrive until some time tomorrow."
I asked where they came from.
He shrugged. "All over."
I asked how he went about getting the girls back. He said it took some time. "It's a little like walking up to a dealer, if you happen to be into pot, and asking him for a lid. You don't go about it the same way you'd ask for directions. Prostitution is still illegal, but the officials look the other way. I think they finally realized which side of their bread the butter is on. The town was dying on the vine when we took over the hotel. Unofficial figures had over half the citizens on welfare because with the hotel closed down-or at least practically closed down-there just wasn't any employment. Well, we put people to work, but if it hadn't been for getting the girls to come back we would soon have been forced to close the doors. Even then, I couldn't get any of the old timers to level with me for a long time. The people who live here are clannish. They'd made up their minds to run the hookers out of town, and a lot of them figured that even if they starved to death, they still wanted things that way. I finally talked with a policeman who told me the score. He put me on to a man named Ike who was the mainstay of the hotel back in the days of prostitution. I told Dee what I wanted and booked in a convention of steel-workers. Three hundred girls arrived in time to show the steelworkers a good time. After that the hotel started making money."
I took a small table in a corner where I could see almost everyone in the room. A blue-haired grandmotherly type sat across from the two girls I noticed when I first came in. She was with three little girls, so she was out of the hooker picture, but not because of her age, not because of the blue hair. Recent headlines in a midwestern newspaper referred to a seventy-five year old prostitute who stated that she didn't intend to stop till she was ninety.
The three couples were of no interest to me because the doctor said emphatically that the hookers didn't make their own arrangements and they'd just arrived that afternoon anyway, so there hadn't been time. Two girls who looked about sixteen sat at the counter drinking cokes, and to my inexperienced eye they appeared to be both too young and too innocent. It was my opinion that they were local residents, possibly employees of the hotel. They wore faded blue jeans, sandals and homespun shirts. Their hair hung down their backs, long, clean and shiny-smooth. One was a blonde, the other a light brunette. So I concentrated on the two who had caught my eye when I first came in and used a technique for eavesdropping that I learned when a relative lost her hearing. I read their lips. They both had dark hair, and either green or hazel eyes. Because of the lighting I couldn't tell for sure. And they were both nice-looking. One wore a cream colored pants suit, and I didn't learn her name because the other girl, who was dressed in a coral colored mid-calf dress, didn't speak it. The one in the cream-colored pants suit started most of her sentences with, "Coleen." She also did most of the talking, and she had nervous little mannerisms that weren't manifested by her friend.
"Coleen," she said as she looked around the coffee shop in the manner of a thief, "if Hank ever finds out about this he'll kill me."
The girl in the coral dress shrugged. "So who is there to tell him? I won't and certainly you aren't going to."
"Coleen, I'm not sure I want to go through with it. Are you sure they're all doctors?"
Coleen nodded her head. "Every one." She leaned across the table and appeared to speak urgently. "And you know as well as I do that doctors are loaded."
"I read where a lot of them are almost broke on account of the insurance rates. You know, malpractice."
"They're still loaded. They wouldn't come to a convention broke, would they? Damn it, stop looking so scared. You remind me of a spy in an old-fashioned movie the way you keep looking around like you expect somebody to come along and arrest you. We haven't even done anything yet. We've just come into the hotel to eat an early dinner. Stop fiddling with your necklace!"
"Coleen, I don't know what was the matter with me when I agreed to come with you. I should have known I couldn't really do it when it came down to it. Coleen, you won't be mad at me if I just sort of-go back to the car and stay there while you-"
"No." The girl in coral looked very angry in spite of the word that formed on her lips. "Of course I won't be angry. I'll just think you're the biggest fool who ever walked, that's all. Here we drive all the way over here from Coldsprings and Hank isn't ever going to know, because we've covered every angle. You've got yourself a chance to pick up a hundred dollars and you get cold feet. Well, I'm not afraid. Look." Her head turned toward the door, where a group of well-dressed men were waiting for the hostess to seat them. Then she turned back to the other girl. "The thing about doctors that makes it so safe is you know they're clean. And it isn't like they'd hurt you. I just don't understand you!"
The girl in the cream-colored suit looked crushed. "You're divorced, Coleen. I'm not, and I don't want to be."
Coleen smiled. "If Hank finds out you put that fur coat on your Master Charge you'll probably be divorced. Christ almighty. You could probably pay for that coat on three conventions."
So the girls I had thought were hookers were from a town close by. One a housewife, the other divorced. They planned to work the doctors' convention. At least one of them did. The other one still looked undecided when I turned my attention to the door as two more girls walked in.
Both were stunning, but they were as different in appearance as two girls can get who have the same general coloring. They were both blondes, both creamy-complexioned, both endowed with beautiful figures. One was about five feet tall, the other over six feet. The tiny one wore her hair in curls all over her head, quite short. The tall one's hair fell to her shoulders in soft, loose waves.
The hostess seated them close to my table, so I could hear everything they said. It's possible almost everyone else in the coffee shop could hear them too. The smaller of the two girls had two spots of bright red color in her cheeks that wasn't put there from a blusher kit, and her eyes burned with fury. "If that bastard thinks he's going to get away with taking my kids away from me, he's got another think coming. I'll hang his ass so high he'll get his dork cut off by an airplane propeller."
Apparently the taller woman was an attorney and a divorce was in the works. She spoke quietly, but her voice had a carrying quality. "Calm down. I didn't say he would get the children. I said he filed for custody. There's a difference between those two-"
"That asshole!" The small one spat the word out. "He didn't care a fucking thing about those kids when we were living together. Never even hardly noticed them. Now he wants to take them away from me and he's only doing it for spite, well, fuck him! I'll kill that little son of a bitch!" She was screaming at the top of her lungs.
The cashier left her perch long enough to help the hostess come over and shush the tiny blonde. Although the conversation was interesting, I had struck out again, and it appeared nobody was going to come to my rescue and make an introduction to the two hookers who had just entered. I was sure they were the ones the doc had referred to, though.
One had red hair, the other one brown. They went to the counter where the young girls I had thought might work at the hotel were still drinking cokes. Again, my lip-reading ability came to my rescue. I made notes of the following conversation:
Sixteen year old ... (or at least she looked it): "Hi, Kerry. Hi, Adelle. Good to see you again."
The other teenager smiled a greeting.
Kerry was the red haired girl, who looked about thirty. "Hi, kids."
First sixteen year old...."What a drag. Doctors are so chintzy. I told Mike, I said we better do better at this convention than we did the last time we worked a doctor deal."
Second teenager...."Yeah."
Older girl, with brown hair. She looked about twenty-five...."Dentists are better, but not much. Mike said we got to stick around in rooms. No circulating. He said People in town are kind of-you know...."
Redhead...."You see those two cunts over there at that table? One has on a light colored pants-suit, the other a pinkish dress. I bet they live right here in town and they're looking for some action."
First teenager...."Mike won't put up with any of that shit. He spots them trying to make a mark, he'll get rid of them."
The two older women ordered coffee. The redhead scowled. "That's the trouble with this business. Goddamn townies horning in on the action."
The brown-haired girl agreed. "And worst than that, the little tramps who give it away." All four of the girls looked glum.
Later, I saw the two young girls in the lobby. They were dressed in fashionable long dresses and wore cosmetics, but not much. A tall black bellman walked up to them and frowned as he said something. Over the rest of the conversation going on in the lobby, I could hear the one girl protesting that she wasn't cruising, she was on her way to the drug store for some aspirin.
The hotel has a setup for the hookers that is used by a number of places where girls are available for a price. Except for a few regular town girls who are smuggled in by bellmen and waiters (strictly against hotel policy) the girls are imported from other cities. Each girl is assigned a room and told to stay in it. During the rush hours, which is the time a girl is likely to be working, she can't even call down to the dining room or coffee shop to order food. If she gets to the point of near starvation, she can always bribe a bellman to bring her something, but since the bellman has strict orders to not mess around with the girls, either in bed or out of it, she has to pay a high price for a sandwich. She can read or watch television or even sleep between tricks, but management (in this case Ike, the chief procurer and importer) keeps telling them to not come to the door without a big welcoming smile, so if she sleeps between tricks she'd better wake up in a hurry.
Four or five of the bellmen and a few waiters are Ike's underlings. These men escort a John to a girl's room and make sure he has actually gone inside. At that time, the gentleman is expected to shell out the slickels to whoever brought him. At this hotel, no arrangements are made over the telephone, but in many hotels the telephone is used more than any other method of getting the trick to the room.
A girl might turn as many as twenty tricks a night. Then again, she might only do one or two. The hotel employees who bring the gentlemen to the room have a bookkeeping system that doesn't fail and doesn't give away secrets. Ike spends most of his time acting as a genial host. He goes from the bar to the coffee shop to the main dining room to the lobby, always willing to do a free-wheeling conventioneer a favor by turning him on to a "fella who just might know where you might find a girl, doctor."
When morning comes, Ike has a tally of each girl's tricks. He pays off the underlings, gives the hotel a cut, takes his percentage, and the balance goes to the girls, always in a plain white envelope. The rates vary for special services.
A straight lay is forty dollars, but a tip is expected. Still, some girls might be persuaded to go for thirty or even twenty-five if business is slow. When this happens, they let Ike know by slipping a note to the next bellman who comes knocking at the door with another customer.
Fellatio is slightly higher, definitely higher if the John expects to be brought to orgasm, but most of the girls will give a little foreplay with their mouth, especially if the John doesn't come in with an erection.
Many of the girls bring along porno films, which they purchase on their own and don't often charge their customer for the privilege of watching. Dee frowns on quickies, but just as performing oral sex often brings a man to orgasm more quickly than without it, the porno films sometimes serve the same purpose. If a man would enjoy two or more girls, he must pay the full price for each. As far as I was able to learn, none of the hookers bring along exotic equipment like chains and whips, but I wasn't able to get on a one-to-one basis with any of the girls, either, except for Anne. Regulations are strict and strictly adhered to there. Girls are simply not allowed to talk with anybody except their tricks. Anne was a pudgy little girl of about twenty, and I talked to her after the convention.
She had a black eye and a missing tooth. She'd been crying and looked very forlorn as she waited for a taxi to take her to the airport. I didn't know she'd worked the doctors' convention when I offered to share my cab. I thought she was a maid, maybe kitchen help. Her tears fell again after we were on our way. I said something reassuring, to the effect that no man was worth crying about. Then I asked where she wanted to be dropped off, never dreaming she was going to the airport too. She said she had to catch the next flight to Baltimore, but mostly she had to get out of the hotel. "Because I did a terrible thing and I might get killed because of it."
Anne lived in Baltimore, but before she moved there with her second husband, she lived in Nevada, where she'd been a working girl at a cathouse. She said she went straight after she married the second time, but when that marriage broke up, she went back to hooking.
"Only I'm not a very good prostitute," she sobbed. "I thought I could do anything a man asked for, but last night-" A fresh torrent of tears brought a halt to her story, but before we arrived at the airport I had it all down inside my head.
Anne's first trick was what she referred to as a real sweet man. He gave her a big tip and showered her with compliments. Then came the second.
"I never would have thought a doctor would be crazy," she said. "Isn't there some kind of law that makes them have to go to a psychiatrist to be checked out, to make sure their head isn't all screwed up? If there isn't, there sure ought to be." I said I didn't know.
"Well, he looked all right. I mean, he didn't look nuts. He was kind of old, maybe fifty-five or sixty. And he wasn't very big, just a little guy about five feet two. Probably only weighed a hundred and twenty pounds. Acted normal when he first got in. I mean, he asked me to tell him my name and all like that.
"Well, pretty soon he started flailing around with his hands and yelling at me to get the glass from the wash basin for him. I thought, boy, he's really a weirdo, I bet he's going to expect me to drink his come. But I got the glass and started to hold it under his prick, but he wouldn't let me. Said he wanted to do it for himself. I think he said something about making sure it was sterile, but I'm not sure. He wasn't talking very clearly at the time.
"Anyway, he shot off into the glass. Then he paid me and went into the other room where he put on his clothes and left. At the door, he told me to keep that glass just as it was, he couldn't take it right then because he didn't want anybody to see him with it if they happened to be outside in the hall.
"I said I would take care of it, and he said for me to not touch it. I promised I wouldn't, and he went ahead and left.
"After he was gone, I happened to notice that he'd covered the glass up with the plastic it was wrapped in. I didn't think he'd come back for it because, well ... men tell me the strangest things. Besides, he'd been drinking a lot. But he did come back for it. I didn't throw the damned glass out, the maid did. He was crazy mad, and he was stone sober, too. I tried to reason with him, but he was insane.
"He looked at me with his eyes all bugged out and his mouth all turned down and told me he had planned to use that come. He was going to dry it and put it through some process or another that I couldn't understand and make pills out of it that he'd store up for his old age, for when the time came when he got so he couldn't come any more. Then he started belting me for being so careless."
Dee gave Anne the money for plane fare home. She told me she guessed she just wasn't cut out for the life of a working girl. She was going back to Baltimore and try to find a waitress job after her eye cleared up and after she'd replaced her missing tooth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marvin is tall, slender and black, but he dislikes being referred to as black. Sometimes he passes for Mexican, but when he's spending his time with a white lady friend (his term, not mine) he often tells her he's colored. He says, "I'm as liberated as the next person and I don't have any hangups. It's expedient for me to say I'm colored to some women. Also lucrative."
Life started out for Marvin in a ghetto. He was the oldest of seven children, two of whom died in infancy. He liked school and became an avid reader at a very early age, and liked history in nonfiction and writers like Hemingway, Steinbeck and Lance Horner when it came to fiction.
Early on, Marvin decided he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in the ghetto, but he didn't set out to get what he wanted by being a stud. "I was planning to go to law school. When I became entangled with a dear, sweet lady who had money. She taught me that there are other ways to make it in this world. That woman dearly loved to fuck, and she gave me some very nice things, including cash. When she died, my heart was broken. I considered going into a monastery for several months after her death. Then I met another dear, sweet lady."
For the past several years, Marvin has been making it a practice to meet dear, sweet ladies. Conventions are a marvelous place to find them, he confided. But he's no one-shot stud. Instead, he makes the acquaintance of well-heeled women and takes them to bed. After that he learns their marital status. "Not that married women aren't enjoyable, it's just that I prefer widows. Spinsters are all right, too, if they're wealthy."
After the convention is over, Marvin accepts the invitation his lady friend has offered. If she lives close by, he'll drive to her town in his Jag. If she lives miles and miles away, he flies and has the car driven out at a later date. He might spend a month or a year with his lady friend, but never more than a year. Marvin has what he refers to as "The Good Life."
* * *
Luke was born in Arizona and brought up in Nevada. When he was eleven years old, he was accosted by an old man in a Reno theater. "All the old dude did was play with my peter, but he gave-me a five-dollar bill."
A year later, Luke was riding his bike out in the mountains when he saw a couple of girls walking along the road. He stopped and talked to them and they told him they'd like to take a ride on his bike. He took them both about a mile down the road to a sheltered spot that he knew about, because he'd camped there with a bunch of boys. "I fucked them both, taking turns. They said I had to pay them something, so I gave them a quarter apiece. That was all I had with me at the time.
The girls weren't much older than I was."
He said, "After that, I got to thinking about life and fucking and money and things. That old man gave me five dollars, but I had to give those two girls money. I didn't understand it."
Unlike Marvin, Luke wasn't enraptured with school. The few books he read were westerns, and he seldom finished them. As he grew older, girls began paying a lot of attention to him, and by the time he was sixteen, he thought he had the mystery of why he'd had to pay girls but a man paid him for sex. His blond good looks attracted other men, and most of them paid him for sex. "But the girls didn't. I understood it was some kind of misunderstanding, that money thing. But I liked being with girls more than I liked being with men, so I kept on fucking every girl I could, and paid for the expense of taking them out on dates with money I made from the men."
Luke's luck changed when a friend of his mother's came to visit for a week. "She was about forty, not very pretty and too fat for my taste, so I didn't hang around the house much that first day or so. She was thinking about suing her husband for divorce and she kept talking about it and talking about it but never going to a lawyer and doing something about it.
"One afternoon when my mother went to the hospital to help out-she was a volunteer worker in the mental hospital-I happened to think of something I wanted in Maggie's room. I thought she was out on the patio, but she was in there with a banana rammed up her cunt, frothing at the mouth as she rolled around on the bed. I damn near fainted. Like I said, she wasn't much to look at, but I was sixteen years old and horny all the time. So I told Maggie I had something that'd give her a lot more satisfaction than any banana."
Maggie gave Luke ten dollars. He decided that was something more like. After that, he looked around for older women and developed an instinct for sniffing the ones out who were what he called "on the prod." They paid him well, but not well enough. Shortly after he was graduated from high school, he took a job as a busboy in one of the big hotel casinos.
"A lot of man-hungry older women were always hanging around, so I took care of them and saw to it that they bought me nice things."
Before long, Luke realized that a lot of the conventions were almost one hundred percent women. "Church groups, secretaries, organizations that are into the occult, like astrologists, nurses ... I even made it with an old doll who came to a Women's Temperance Union meeting." Some conventions are more evenly divided between the sexes, but a great number of widows come to the ones they formerly attended with their husbands.
Luke isn't as affluent as Marvin, but he makes ends meet, he says in his laconic western drawl. Once in a while he spends a few weeks with a woman he meets at a convention, but if he does, he usually wishes he hadn't. "They get possessive. I don't want to be a puppet on a string. So I generally end up riding after a week or two."
At this writing, Luke is involved with the widow of a Texas millionaire. She wants to get married. He doesn't. She is fifty and he's now twenty-seven. "But of course, there's always the possibility of a divorce with a healthy settlement. Seems like that old business that used to worry me is getting sort of straightened out. A few years ago a man could never hope for alimony."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I dedicated this book to the memory of Millie. Our paths crossed thirty years ago on several different occasions, but always at the same place.
I was working for a newspaper in a city of about half a million people and one of my prime assets was punctuality. Deadlines are very important to the people who get out the news and reporters who don't make it to work on time usually find a pink slip in their pay envelope after a few warnings.
A friend who worked in the art department was about to get the axe because she couldn't got to work on time. Since I was usually a good fifteen minutes early, I took it upon myself to go to her downtown apartment to make sure she was awake and dressed. Usually I brought along a cup of coffee.
As I started up the steps to her apartment, I often met a dark-haired, attractive woman in the entryway. For several weeks we exchanged smiles and progressed to "Good morning, fine day, isn't it?" I assumed she worked the night shift somewhere. One day I asked my friend where the girl worked, the one I saw two or three times a week who often came up the stairs with me.
She said, "Oh, she's a whore."
At my tender age I was both shocked and distressed. "But she seems like such a nice person," I said.
"Oh, she is a nice person," the girl assured me. "She's just as nice as she can be. Her name is Millie. She has two adorable children, but they don't live with her. She keeps them with a family over in the suburbs. But she gets them on weekends and holidays."
One morning as I was coming into the building, Millie was coming down the steps. Her face was white as snow and her eyes were spilling over with tears. I asked if I could help her. She said no, nobody could help her. Then she sat down on the stairs and cried the way children cry while I awkwardly tried to comfort her.
"I just couldn't stay up there in my apartment another second," she said between sobs. "I just see it over again, everywhere I look, but I know it isn't there. It didn't even happen at my place. I never take anybody there, you know."
At that point, it seemed necessary to get Millie off the steps so I suggested we go to my friends. Once inside the door of the apartment, I gave Millie the cup of coffee I'd brought and watched her sip it like a child being comforted by its mother. She held the paper cup with both hands and looked at me with big, sad eyes over the rim. For a change, my friend was up, dressed and ready to go to work, and it was fifteen minutes until time to be there.
After Millie drank all the coffee, she agreed with us that she'd probably feel better if she got what was worrying her off her chest.
She had been to a convention. A United Grape-Growers' convention. "Only I don't grow grapes," she said with a shadowy, haunted smile. Then all the rest of it came running out along with more tears.
"I don't drink, but I guess I couldn't tell the difference between grape juice and-oh, I'm sure there was grape juice in the drink this man gave me, so I feel pretty sure he spiked it with something. Vodka, probably, because honestly, I couldn't taste a thing, and I had three glasses. It was real good.
"The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance, only I didn't know it was an ambulance. See, I never tell anybody why I don't drink. I just let 'em go ahead and think it's because I don't like the taste of whiskey or whatever else they want to think, because it sounds silly when I say I get sick enough to die. But it's true. Just one drink knocked me out for twenty-four hours once. The next time I tried it was four years later, and after two drinks I fell down on the floor and everybody thought I was dead. So I said never again.
"They were drinking a lot at that grape growers' convention and I was getting tired anyway, so I just decided to have a drink of grape juice before I came home. Maybe it was their idea of a joke to put something in the grape juice, but I don't think it was funny.
"They must have sobered up a little when I fell down on the floor, but they probably weren't sober enough to listen for my heartbeat or see if I was breathing or anything like that. What they did was call an ambulance. I could hear the siren and realized where I was and what was going on, but I thought I was going to a hospital, so I didn't say anything to the driver. He probably couldn't have heard me anyway, come to think of it.
"But he didn't take me to a hospital. Young punk. He just didn't know anything, but he should have stopped to consider that those men were all drunk and wouldn't know a dead woman from a live one. He took me to the morgue, that's where. When I realized where I was, I tried to tell him, look, I'm not dead! But you know, my throat was paralyzed. I couldn't utter a sound. He just left me there and I couldn't even move my head."
My friend and I were both ten minutes late to work that day. We convinced Millie that she'd feel better in the apartment, where she was sleeping soundly when we went back at noon. After quitting time, we returned and Millie was up and around, apparently recovered from her harrowing experience. But she said she'd never go to a grape growers' convention again.
"After this, I'm going to stick to men I know better like the American Legion gentlemen. Oh, they like a lot of bathroom jokes and think pissing into a paper bag and throwing it out the window from the fifteenth floor is great fun. But I don't think any Legionnaire would ever spike a girl's drink."
* * *
Millie passed away a few years ago. Her death was sudden and painless, but she knew her time was short. About a month before she died, my friend received a letter. They'd kept in touch all those years and I have kept in touch with my friend. In her letter, Millie referred to the time she'd been carted off to the morgue for dead. She said she'd never told her husband about that period of her life, but he'd been good to her and she loved him. Her postscript was typically Millie.
"But you know, sometimes I've been awfully bored. Now that I'm leaving, and looking back on twenty-two years with the same man, I wonder about a lot of things but sometimes I look at what tomorrow holds in the strangest way. I get to wondering if maybe I'm going to some great big convention in the sky."
