The Happy Hooker: My Own Story

13. AN ADULT TALE; OR: FANTASY AND ME

“I am a four-times married contessa, simply rolling in money left me by my three husbands who have all mysteriously died,” I tell the man sitting fully dressed in my living room.

“My fourth husband is ailing and may not survive the night…”

“Yes, yes, go on, go on,” he urges impatiently in his thin, piping voice. “What happened to these men? Tell me!”

“The first, poor man, drowned right before my eyes in the sea at Deauville. I, uh, sort of held his head under water.

“The second, rest his soul, died an agonizing death when his bedroom caught fire and I could not get the door open to let him out.”

“The third?” he prods.

“He fell over a mountain in Switzerland. I was standing right behind him and saw it happen…”

While I am spinning the story, the man sits there spellbound. His bony hand, shaking from the first states of Parkinson’s disease, goes to his pocket and starts tampering with his cock.

H. Christian Andersen, as he likes to be called, is the scion of one of America’s wealthiest shipping families. He is also one of the biggest-spending weirdos I have ever met.

Weirdos – or sickies – are freaks who prefer much more exotic and ingenious humiliation than the usual masochist. They will pay any amount; sometimes, the more you charge, the happier they are; and some of their scenes would bend your brain.

H. Christian Andersen doesn’t want sex, and he doesn’t want to know you’re a call girl. He wants to believe you’re a rich but chiseling woman. In other words, he comes to a brothel for a different kind of tail – a fantasy tale. An imaginative storyteller, which I can claim to be, can earn a really fat fee from this sickie by spinning out the episodes over a series of days.

“What about the present husband?” Andersen demands to know. “What’s bothering him?”

“Poor man,” I say, “the doctor thinks he ate poisoned caviar. He is in terrible agony and may not last the night, but I’ll let you know what happened when you come back tomorrow.”

He is happy to treat me generously for that little half-hour story, makes his appointment for the following day, and leaves.

I always try my best to give H. Christian Andersen original fairy tales for his money, but if I am distracted and can’t invent one sufficiently intriguing, he will sometimes settle for his old favorite, which is my version of “The Emperor’s New Clothes.”

In this story I play the role of the vendeuse at Dior’s New York salon and Andersen takes the part of Mrs. Rich-bitch ordering her new fall wardrobe.

On the first day we discuss fabrics and inevitably decide the entire collection will be done in crushed velvet – he adores crushed velvet – and satin. That being established, he pays far more than the standard fees for the consultation, out of which I have to buy the fabrics also. Before he comes back the next afternoon, I send out for ten dollars’ worth of the two fabrics, which he sits and fondles while we plan how we’ll make them up.

“Would you prefer to send the fabrics to Paris to be made by Cardin or Dior, or shall we summon one of them here?” I ask my client. Dior is several years dead, but he doesn’t know that.

“Bring me Dior,” he commands.

“These people don’t come cheap,” I warn him. “Dior will want at least $700 to cross the Atlantic.”

“Hang the expense, bring the man here,” he repeats, and produces his wallet.

Next day when he comes around to meet with Dior I have a very sad story to tell him. Dior’s plane has been grounded on the polar route in Anchorage, Alaska. “He is stranded in a snowstorm; and the cables, limousines, and hotel bills are mounting,” I have to inform him. Naturally, he covers the cost of all that.

While we’re waiting for the couturier to arrive, I make the suggestion that his new clothes would fit better if he had some silicone shots to plump up his breasts. “That is a splendid idea,” he, beams babyishly, and pays for a jab on each side of his chest with an empty syringe.

Eventually the clothes are ready, and I drape the invisible finery around him and assure him he is a vision of sartorial splendor. He settles up his massive account, thanks me profusely, and, goes merrily on his way. Andersen’s non-clothes have cost him dearly, but he is thrilled to pay, and always eager for more tall tales. However, that man has often exhausted my imagination.

Occasionally I have to tell him: “Hey, H. Christian, I’m running out of stories. Are you sure you don’t want to get laid?” I really would like to see him get more value for his money, but he prefers to be taken for a ride.

In fact, one time he wanted me to take him for a weird ride, literally. He wanted me to kidnap him!

What’s more, he offered such a big ransom fee for his kidnapping that I could not refuse. Together with a limousine driver I know, I planned to pick Andersen up outside a Fourteenth Street subway station, where he agreed to wait for us with a flower in his buttonhole and a rolled-up newspaper in his hand at twelve noon.

But, seeing he likes to suffer, I kept him waiting till two-thirty P.M., when I pulled up in the black limousine, lured him into the back seat, and stuffed a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag over his head.

We drove him to an upstate motel, where the limo driver kept guard over him for two days, refusing him anything but an occasional paper-cupful of water. On the third day we released him, and he was so delighted with his kidnapping that he paid us a tip on top of the generous ransom money.

The sickie syndrome, like the M and S, often involves the use of props; but rarely, unlike the latter, are they instruments of bondage or torture.

It is more often something relatively harmless like some surgical tubing knotted around the private parts, cigarette smoke, or expensive silk scarves.

One weirdo pays me to tie a nautical slipknot around his penis and balls, lead him around the room like a puppy, manipulate it while he sits on the floor and I sit on the bed, and when I want him to climax, I give it a sudden jerk, the knot comes away, and he pops his cookies.

Another sickie simply wants me to sit in a chair while he sits naked facing me in another chair, and puff on a cigarette and blow the smoke in his face while he plays with himself.

Expensive silk scarves are the hang-up of the president of one of Europe’s largest automobile manufacturing companies, whom I will identify as Mr. Bigwheel.

I acquired Mr. Bigwheel as a customer from Madeleine, who used to make lots of money selling him cocaine at highly inflated prices, which he then used in his nocturnal charades.

Mr. Bigwheel’s pet scene is having hookers come to his Waldorf Towers suite – always in pairs – to do nothing but stand motionless in front of a wraparound mirror while he dances around draping them in Hermes scarves.

When this man is in town, I usually do the first shift myself because I know that before the night is over he will request a whole gaggle of girls, and one previous time I couldn’t find enough.

When we arrive at his suite he greets us wearing a pair of chic silk pajamas and does not attempt to disrobe or expose his body at all during the next two hours, which is how long it generally lasts. However, the hired girls have to undress and put on a pair of his heavy woolen socks, get back into their own high-heeled shoes, and stand motionless while he does his decorating.

Then he dips cocaine on our breasts and pussycats and eats or sniffs it off and starts going berserk, babbling away in an incoherent mixture of French and his own language.

It becomes very tiring for the girls, because, except for the five minutes when we are allowed to lie down while he admires his handiwork, we are on our feet all the time, and those thick woolen socks really make our shoes pinch.

After two uncomfortable but entirely platonic hours he pays us $200 each, and we dress and leave.

Mr. Bigwheel always keeps me awake throughout the night finding sets of two prostitutes to send over to him, and about nine in the morning, when you would think he would be exhausted from all the cocaine and cavorting, he calls up, wants me to come over to straight screw him, boom, boom, twenty minutes and out. Then he goes off to a business conference, and that night he freaks out in the same fashion all over again.

Another thing that is very big with sickies who want to do anything but screw is wrestling. The “Referee,” a New York literary critic, has this activity down to a fine art.

The Referee comes to my house carrying a little black suitcase from which he pulls out an old-fashioned flowered garterbelt-corset type garment that he wants me to undress and get into. Either it’s too tight or I’m putting on weight, because I really have to squeeze to get it on.

Then I have to put on fishnet stockings and high heels and lie down on my bed. The Referee undresses too, and gets on the bed beside me with his little black bag.

He opens the treasured bag again and pulls out a neat folder, which I first thought would be the same old pictures of men sucking women and women sucking men, but no, instead it’s a whole collection of women wrestlers, which he spreads around the bed.

The pictures are ancient, and the paper is yellow, and even though he has looked at them hundreds of times, he still gets juiced up showing them to me. “Look how this one’s tits stick up, and look how this one’s got her cunt in the air!”

He gets very carried away as we discuss the wrestling postures of the funny-looking women with their old-fashioned hair styles.

After awhile he puts them all neatly away and takes out another folder full of pictures of movie stars like Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot, as well as beautiful models in ads, and the women all have one thing in common, they are all wearing some kind of foundation garment, like corsets, garters, or stockings.

Then the Referee wants me to match them together as wrestling partners. “Who do you think could really give it to the other one?” he asks lasciviously. Apparently I do an expert job of pairing them, because he gets so excited he starts jumping around on the bed, and asks me have I ever wrestled with a woman.

With freaks and weirdos, psychology is one of the most important attributes, so I tell him, “I love to wrestle, and I always win, because I am very aggressive.” I make up a vivid story about having a fight on the beach in Puerto Rico with a stuck-up English girl with red hair and freckles, whom I couldn’t stand on account of some boyfriend.

“I grabbed her head and pulled her hair and kicked her left and right, and we flew all over the place, and I even tore a clump of hair from her pussy.”

The story really freaks him out, and all the time I am talking, I am jerking his cock. “And finally I beat her black and blue and practically senseless, and I was the winner,” I conclude. And so does the Referee, who climaxes, thanks me, dresses, and goes.

I’m a big hit with the wrestling weirdos because I am strongly built and sometimes can look slightly butch. I also have, as one of them told me, perfect balance. And that’s my problem, because this fatiguing freak Gorgeous George will wrestle with nobody but me.

I met Gorgeous George before I was a busy madam and could devote the time it took to tumble around the floor with him, but these days his hang-up is far too time-consuming – and painful – for me.

Gorgeous George is skinny and kind of ugly, but a genius mentally, a brilliant pianist-composer, a financial wizard, and an accomplished tennis player.

He is also the father of a young son, which amazed me when I found out, because all he ever does for his $150 is roll around the floor and wrestle. He never screws, and he never even jerks off. How, I wondered for a long time, did this man make a baby when he never even climaxes? Then I accidentally found out at a social Christmas party, and it was Mrs. Gorgeous George herself who told me!

Evidently it was no secret that he was spending his money with me to get his weirdo gratification. His wife knew about it and entirely approved.

“So you’re Xaviera?” she said when she was introduced to me by him at the party. “Please let me thank you for all the wonderful things you have done for my husband. You have improved our sex life enormously.”

Mrs. Gorgeous George explained that after his sessions at my house her husband was able to get aroused to the point that when he came home, he would lock her in a wrestling hold, put his penis in her, and ejaculate. Otherwise, she admitted to me, they never had any kind of sex.

I asked how he acquired his crazy hang-up, and she said when he was a scrawny little twelve-year-old in school, a fat girl whom he had a kind of crush on picked him up in the gym one day, held him over her head for a minute, then dropped him to the floor and laughed her insides out.

Her husband, she said, felt very humiliated, but at the same time experienced a kind of sexual exhilaration, and when he reached manhood he started looking around for fat or hefty women.

She claimed, and it could be true, that he even hung around circus sideshows having fantasies about the fat freak ladies.

However, until he met me he never found anyone who combined attractive looks with strength and who would cooperate with him, for a fee, of course.

At the time I met his wife I had already stopped seeing Gorgeous George, because I could not afford the time he took and did not enjoy walking around for the next two days after each session with stiff joints and a bruised body.

She implored me to start taking care of him again, and even suggested I come to their big house, where there would be more space to wrestle. “If it would make you feel easier, I could always go out to my music lessons when you are there,” she said.

I had to refuse, but to this day she still calls and says: “Xaviera, it’s George, he’s in terrible shape again today, won’t you please come over and help him?”

Apart from the uncomfortable side effects, Gorgeous George’s wrestling scene is a breeze compared with some of the group freak scenes that have to be organized.

To begin with, you often have to find and pay “extras” to participate, and that can sometimes border on disaster if you don’t get the right one.

This happened in a group freak scene with a shy businessman named Lionel, who visited New York weekly.

Lionel was a peek freak who loved to watch movies of men making it together, or, better still, observe them at close quarters through a two-way mirror. He was a married man, but I could easily see that he was a potential-homosexual, and it would only be a matter of time before he plucked up the nerve to participate himself.

It happened one Sunday afternoon. “Xaviera, do you think it would be possible to arrange a nice, discreet young man for me to experiment with?” he asked sheepishly.

It was a very simple matter to phone up the stud service of Pim Anderson, who is also described as a madam, and ask him to send me over someone attractive who is shaped huge.

And that’s where you can get into difficulties using studs.

With a girl you can see how she is built just by looking at her, but if a stud says he has a big one, you have to take his word for it. You can’t say, “Okay, let it all hang out.”

This Sunday afternoon Pim sends me over a beautiful-looking kid named Raymond who, just as the scene is about to begin, cannot get it up in the worst way.

I call him outside and ask him: “What’s the problem, why can’t you get it up?” And he says, “I already screwed five times today, and I also jerked off when I woke up this morning, because it felt so nice.”

I can’t use a tired stud, so I had to fire him. “If you want to be a stud on Sundays, don’t jerk off, nut,” I told him.

Meanwhile, poor Lionel has paid me $200, for which he doesn’t get a refund, but I promise him a fantastic four-way scene the next day. But this time I get hold of Jonny Starr, the Negro from the umbrella store, who is in no way homosexual but whose cock is gigantic. Jonny will participate free of charge in almost anything as long as he gets the girl in the end.

Next afternoon, on my king-size bed are Lionel, Jonny, my roommate, Corinne, and I, and we’re all waiting to go into the scene when Jonny stalls. Trouble again.

“I’m not going the Hershey Bar road without a rubber,” he insists, and wants to delay the scene while I find one.

There are none available, so I say, “Listen, you’re brown already, so what do you care?” And everybody cracks up, and he agrees to go ahead anyway.

This time Lionel gets a really good scene. While he lies on his side, Corinne is in front of him giving him a blow-job and Jonny is behind him with his big cock going in and out while Lionel is screaming ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, because the first time it always hurts a lot. All the time I am behind Jonny, fingering his asshole and thinking a hard man is good to find.

In the end Lionel is sore but ecstatic, and Jonny screwed both me and Corinne free of charge, and everybody got their money’s worth. However, two days later Lionel called up to tell me that his square country wife is demanding to know why he has to eat his dinner off the mantelpiece.

If a weirdo has a hang-up for group scenes, he will sometimes go to all lengths to pursue them, and can even end up in a very dangerous situation, which is what happened to “Nijinski,” the sickie who digs watching naked girls do ballet.

When I first met Nijinski I was a loner about to go into the madam business, and he was only slightly sick sexually, going with one girl at a time and wanting her to cavort around in front of the mirror before they made love.

By a coincidence I found out he lived in the same building I opened my first house in, and he became a regular customer, getting gradually kinkier. He used to put me through hoops finding non-Caucasian girls, Orientals or Negroes, or anything but straight-up Anglo-Saxon types. Then he started insisting I give him a reduction in the fee because he was a regular customer.

In a way I liked him; he was a brilliant graphic designer who worked with a leading advertising agency, but he would sometimes get on my nerves with his demands.

One Friday night when I had already gone to bed there was a persistent ringing on the doorbell, and I went out and opened it to find Nijinski in the company of two vicious-looking black street whores, and he wanted me to ask them in. “Hey, I want you to get to know my two new girl friends,” he said drunkenly. “They’re very good ballet dancers.”

“If they’re ballet dancers, I’m an astronaut,” I told him. “Good night, I am going back to sleep.”

That night I had sent one of my girls, Elaine, out on a date for the whole night, and expected her back at eight the next morning with the check. I am the one who is always responsible for the check, and I pay the girl whether it bounces or not, but in this case I did not anticipate any difficulty because the client was the respected dean of a big university.

At eight the doorbell rang, and I opened it to find a trembling, semihysterical Elaine standing there white as a sheet.

“There are police and photographers all over the lobby,” she said. “And the elevator is covered in blood.”

I brought her in and gave her a coffee and put on glasses and a wig and went downstairs to investigate. From the doorman I learned it was Nijinski, who was in critical condition in Bellevue Hospital.

On the way back to my apartment I noticed blood smeared all over the walls of the hall, and to this day those marks are still visible.

Some days later, when he was off the Critical List, I decided to visit my friend in the hospital to see how he was and what had happened. He told me that when they got home, he’d asked the girls to disrobe and do some ballet steps for him. But they refused and demanded quick money instead.

“C’mon, we don’t need that bullshit,” they said. “Give us a quick screw and $100.”

Nijinski, being drunk, offered to give them a check because he didn’t have enough money. Now, the rules of the business are that girls don’t accept checks. A street hooker would never consider a check, so when he started writing it out, they got mad and grabbed a bread knife from the kitchen and lunged at him with it.

Together they held him down, stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth, and blindfolded him. They broke a Coke bottle and buried the jagged end in his face, smashed the legs off the coffee table and used them to brutally beat him. Then they kicked his body and his balls and finally stabbed him repeatedly with the bread knife, and today he still has the ugly scars under his heart, on his abdomen, and around his throat.

The girls fled when he passed out, but not before taking with them everything of value they could carry from the apartment.

Mercifully he regained consciousness and managed to drag himself along the hall, and the last thing he remembered was pressing the elevator button with his chin before tumbling into the opening door.

Nijinski is a very subdued man now and leads a very secluded life, but that terrible experience has not cured him of his hang-up. However, he is very careful whom he conducts his erotic ballet sessions with these days, and has definitely changed his taste in “professional” ballerinas. When he phones up now he still specifies two girls, but they must be Anglo-Saxons.

There is one other branch of the sickies or weirdos whom I definitely would prefer never to have to do business with. The ones whose hang-up is filth.

Their scenes include anything from messy meals to urine to feces, to put it bluntly, and even though they are willing to pay a fortune for their scene, I usually turn them down unless they can conduct their repulsive activities someplace other than my house.

One famous television producer wants to pay through the nose for what girls do through the bladder – which is otherwise known as the “golden shower.”

This man was quite straight when I first met him, and I saw him gradually go from wanting the vibrator on his penis to the dildo in his anus, and finally one day asking me to urinate on him.

In time this became obsessive, and one day he called me and said, “Xaviera, I’ve been dreaming about having a dozen pretty girls pee all over me, and I will pay anything you ask if you would arrange it.”

In those days I was not a madam yet, and I had lots of trouble rounding up eight girls who would participate. Then my boyfriend, Larry, had to go over to Alexander’s and buy some plastic and rubber sheets to protect my bed, because the scene was to be held at my place.

The girls had been warned, before they came over, not to go to the bathroom, and were promised a $25 bonus on top of the $50 fee for the one who peed the longest. Just for good measure, I told them to drink a lot of beer before leaving for my place.

The producer arrived slightly crocked and drank a half-bottle of Scotch before he lay naked on the waterproofed bed and the bizarre scene began. All this time the movie projector was showing blue films on the wall, and now I sat on a chair with the stopwatch to time the girls as the first one came in and stood astride him and relieved herself.

Then the second, third, and fourth girls performed. Urine was starting to overflow on my bed and onto the floor, and I was getting fed up with the nauseating spectacle.

By the time the last girl had gone, the place looked like a pigsty with puddles around the floor and pee in the producer’s hair, eyes, and everywhere. A little Puerto Rican girl with a bladder infection won the contest by maintaining a weak dribble for sixty-five seconds.

But he still hadn’t had a climax, so I took the biggest dildo around and jammed it in his rear end, and he popped his cookies. Then I threw him in the tub with lots of Vitabath and scrubbed him all over, took him out, and dried him off, then remembered I had not washed his hair, and had to bathe him all over again.

The beer, the birds, and the bath cost him $600, and he was pleased to pay the price. However, I didn’t want my house turned into a public urinal ever again, so I sent him to a rival madam.

Mr. Filthyrich is something else again. This incredibly handsome, intelligent, charming, and wealthy man wants you to feed him your shit – literally – with a silver spoon out of a plate. One girl I know makes a fortune by telephoning him when she feels the urge, and he always tells her to get in a cab and come right over.

But most of my girls don’t like going there, easy money though it is, because Mr. Filthyrich at thirty-two is so handsome and would make some girl a gorgeous lover that they can’t bring themselves to do what he wants.

One thing more that especially bothers me about Mr. Filthyrich is that the crockery he uses for his revolting deviation is a blue Delft plate – my country’s most treasured export!

Henry the Eighth is one of the heaviest “filth freaks” in the whole of my black book, and has been thrown out of every respectable hotel in New York because he is such a big pig.

In truth he looks more like a frog than a pig. He’s a repulsive man with olive eyes that sort of pop out of his head, and a fat slobbery mouth.

If a girl is smart, she can get a lot of money from him, but it takes a lot of patience and a strong stomach. This big fat Jewish slob’s hang-up is ordering huge quantities of food up to his room and wolfing it down while he gets stoned on grass, amyl nitrate, and other stimulants.

He pushes it all into his mouth in large fistfuls while grunting and snorting like a pig; then, when he can’t fit any more in his mouth, he starts hurling it around the room. He throws peas, carrots, chicken bones, gravy, all over the room, in the light fixtures, the draperies, the girl even catches it on her dress, and, of course, there’s food all over the bed.

Then, depending on how freaky his mood is, he wants the girl to kick him, slap him, tie him down, spit in his face, and sometimes even pee on him. Finally he gets his rocks off when the girl uses a strong vibrator on his penis while he is slobbering with his liver-lips on her vagina.

You can imagine the screams the maids let out when they come in to clean up his room next morning.

It’s a repulsive scene, but of course he means well, he’s just a big baby. However, that’s not the way the hotel managers look at his behavior, and that is why he has freaked his way through every hotel in Manhattan.

When Henry the Eighth first called me up, he had a suite in the Plaza. Last time I heard from him was from a rundown motel on Tenth Avenue in the Twenties!