The Happy Hooker: My Own Story

15. FOR PLEASURE MORE THAN PROFIT

The old saying “Never mix business with pleasure” does not always apply to the business of pleasure.

If I didn’t have my heart literally in my work, or sometimes fall in love, I would go crazy. For example, I was in Miami that lonely Christmas after Carl left me, as the house guest of a swinging New York socialite, Dennis Tanner, and his bitchy Swedish wife. After she fell asleep at night, he would come to my room and make love to me till dawn. However, I wanted somebody for myself, to share the holiday fun with, a man to escort me around the parties and private clubs.

One evening a group of us went to a place called the Palm Bay Club, which was rather stuffy, but quite good fun. Even though my hosts made a point of including me in the conversation and the dancing, I was feeling acutely lonely. Once in a while I would do a little reconnaissance trip around the room, but the attractive men were all attached.

Toward the end of the evening, as I stood near the bar alone, my famous orange juice in my hand, the reveling crowd around me parted like the Sea of Galilee and out walked one of the most gorgeous men I had seen in Miami – alone.

He was so stunningly glamorous, he looked like the classic Cosmopolitan fiction illustration of the lover. His immaculate white suit accentuated his even suntan, and his face was crowned with black hair cut in Roman-boy style and rakishly long. I guessed him to be in his late thirties. He had, I hoped, a stranger’s lost look in his eyes.

As the man walked closer to me, our eyes embraced, and something compelled us to touch each other’s arm. I spoke first. “Are you as lonely as I am?” I asked.

“I guess I am,” he replied, to my utter joy, “and I could use some charming feminine company.” With zero resistance from me, he took my arm and steered me from the Palm Bay Club, into a taxi, and on to a more swinging discotheque called the Penthouse where we laughed and danced and talked German together until around three in the morning.

His name was Paul Lindfeld, and he was a famous New York jewelry designer of German Jewish extraction, recently divorced. When the evening wound up he took me to the Jockey Club, where he was staying, and without too many words we slipped into his bed and made love.

We turned on to each other’s bodies so intensely and became so passionate that the people in the next room started complaining and knocking on the wall. But we just ignored them and continued our lovemaking.

Before we fell asleep exhausted I felt this was a man I could really seriously fall in love with, and before the relationship went any further I would have to tell him the truth about who I was and what I did.

I didn’t think he would take the news too badly, since he was a sophisticated kind of man. I felt he could accept my professional status for what it was.

“Paul, there is something I think you ought to know about me,” I said.

“I know already,” he said sleepily. “You’re wonderful in bed.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” I said, “but the matter is slightly more serious than that. You see, if I weren’t good in bed I would be out of business, if you know what I mean.”

“What exactly do you mean?” he asked, wide-awake now.

“I am trying to tell you that I am not exactly what you believe I am – the little interior designer on her annual vacation. I am actually a professional woman – a call girl.”

He sat bolt upright and backed off.

Before he could speak, I continued, “Please don’t think I am going to ask you to pay me, or anything like that. I wasn’t working tonight. With you it was true desire.”

And in order to soften the blow, I added: “I just do it to help support my parents.”

Paul was visibly jolted by the revelation, but talked about it a little more, and he accepted it unconditionally.

The next morning I moved out of the Tanners’ house and in with Paul, and we spent every moment of the next few days together falling in love. It was the first time I had felt like this in ages, despite all my experiences. Forget about Evelyn St. John – this was much deeper. We went everywhere together, and he was so gorgeous that I wore him on my sleeve like a croix de guerre.

Back in New York, after a long, depressing period of not hearing from Paul, I finally did get a call from him explaining how busy he’d been, and we took over from where we left off in Miami. Paul lived on the twenty-fifth floor of an apartment on Central Park South, and the winter panorama outside across the snow-covered park was pure Grandma Moses and terribly romantic. The apartment was elegant, expensive, and tastefully decorated with expensive antiques. The bedroom had an oval-shaped window from which I loved to blow my mind on the view.

Paul was nicely shaped, precious but not too big, and he was basically a square lover. But we didn’t need gimmicks of any kind. Variations are there usually if you’re getting slightly bored with the normal position. However, when it’s love, the normal position is as exciting as standing on your head and doing it.

The feelings I had at that moment for Paul were almost as deep as those I had had for Carl. I guess this was the first time since Carl I had felt this way, because I had been hurt so badly that I didn’t want to give myself any more pain. In a way, I had grown up, matured. And maturity comes with suffering, and experience in life, I believe.

I had a second telephone installed in my apartment exclusively for his calls, and his ego was flattered by that. I was working as a single then, so I could easily take nights off. Sometimes we would go to the theater and dinner, and always we would return to his apartment.

About a month after we started our blazing affair, Paul wanted me to let him make love to me Greek style. I had never done that before, and I resisted.

But Paul was persistent. “You’ve done everything in your life. You’ve been a prostitute, and before that you’ve had a lot of men, so if you love me, let me take your virginity in the only remaining place.”

I loved him, so I let him do it his way.

Paul was strangely excited by the acquisition of my ass and he got very carried away. He had a rhythm that really shakes your bowels, and he made me unbelievably sore. From that night on he would regularly want me to let him do it that way. In the beginning it kept hurting, but after a while I even started enjoying it now and then, since luckily he wasn’t too big for me.

Still and all, he gave no thought to my pleasure. His desires were the ones that had to come first, whether I liked it or not. I started recognizing in Paul traits that were disturbingly reminiscent of Carl. Along with his selfish sexuality, Paul was not at all generous – even stingier than Carl had been in New York. Even on a cold winter night, he wouldn’t part with cabfare. This turned me off in a way, even though I still cared for him deeply. I was starting to see other things in my Adonis too. Even though he wanted a steady girl friend, he wanted full freedom as well, and he was not really the type of man to be tied down by one woman. Since the road to love started becoming slightly rocky, I was finding myself with free time on my hands and started circulating among a crowd of swinging friends to distract me from my disappointment in our affair.

One evening I made a date to meet a group of friends at a bar on First Avenue called My House. My House has a front piano bar and a back room where I was to join the crowd.

As I picked my way through the place, I caught sight of a girl with blond hair and a round face who looked strangely like me. The trace of narcissism that exists in all of us attracted me to her.

As I got very close, I heard her speak in a sultry voice, and I knew I would love to make it with her.

Although she didn’t look like a swinger, the man with her did, so my strategy was to approach him first.

I went around behind him and whispered in his ear. “Hi, my name is Xaviera, and I am going to make a suggestion that I hope won’t offend you,” I said. “I would really love to be with you and your girl in a swing – preferably just your girl; is there any possibility?”

It didn’t take a Fuller Brush man to sell him the idea. He started laughing and jumping about and immediately got all excited.

Then he relayed my proposition to his girl, and she reacted with shock and retreated into her shell and said nothing.

“Look, if my suggestion will cause any jealousy or ill feeling, just tell me, and I’ll take off. But if you would like to join me and come to a party being given by a close friend, an important politician from Albany, you can think about it.

“If you like the idea, we’ll take it from there. If you don’t, then you can leave from the party.”

At the horny boyfriend’s urging they both joined me. His name was Marvin, hers was Lisa, and they had been dating each other for about two years, although both were married to different partners.

We stayed at the party a couple of hours, during which I took every opportunity to turn Lisa on. And the way you can turn a woman on, or at least tell if she is a sexual type, is to stroke the inside of her arms, or in her hair, or on the back of her neck. If you are sitting down at a table, you can reach down and stroke behind her legs. A sensual woman always reacts to this.

Mellowed by a few drinks at the party, and semiseduced by me, Lisa and Marvin decided to leave for my apartment around midnight.

Before we left, I also picked up a big, square Texan who looked very bored and very rich. “If you pay me one hundred dollars,” I told the Texan, “you’ll have a better time than you’re having here. In fact, you might even have one of the most exciting nights of your life. I can promise you a fantastic swing,” I went on, “and you can watch me make it with this girl or you can participate, and you may even fuck me or her.”

I don’t usually take somebody from a party and. try to turn him into a john, but in this case I recognized the possibility of combining business with pleasure.

Marvin and Lisa I would never charge, of course, because I liked them as friends. They were for pleasure more than profit.

By the time we reached my apartment, Lisa had dropped her inhibitions and started slowly undressing, until she was completely nude. Her body was sort of voluptuous, not unlike a Rubens painting, soft and full. Her breasts were not all that big, but they were firm and erect, her lips were moist and tender, her tongue was hungry for sex. Her eyes had a faraway look, knowing what she could expect to come and yet with a childlike innocence.

I brushed my eager lips against her mouth, her cheeks and nose, while circling her shell-formed ears with my warm tongue. She stiffened and sighed, goosebumps appearing on her arms and legs. My hands reached up to massage the back of her head, and then down to her neck, while her silky blond hair slipped through my fingers like sand on a beach. We both stepped back, and like falling on a cloud, we stretched ourselves out on my bed.

A fierce desire for her inviting body made my blood course through my body, and I reached with one hand to her left breast, at the same time caressing her right nipple with my tongue, making circle movements around the erect nipple. Lisa, meanwhile, like a kitten beginning to wake for dinner, began to moan ever so softly but deeply. With one hand she nudged my head lower and lower, until she entwined my head and rooted it to the source of her greatest pleasure. With my fingers I gently opened the petals of her sweet flower, and her body moved upward and outward to open a larger door to our pleasurable play. And once opened, there was no way back. My tongue darted in and out, exciting her more and more.

Marvin and the Texan meanwhile were watching in anticipation, all excited by the view of this loving scene. They both climbed on the queen-size bed, but it became too crowded, so I ordered them: “Get off, please, I want to be alone with my girl.” And they did. All of a sudden I felt like a man trying to protect his girl.

I know exactly where to find the clitoris, better often than many a man. You open the top of the woman’s vagina, and there, sometimes hidden away, you will find, like a miniature penis, the little clitoris. It contains the same number of nerves as the male equivalent, so it is intensely sensitive. It also gets a hard-on like a penis, and it is a matter of vibrating your tongue, finger, or vibrator, putting the passionate feeling into the little clitoris to make the woman climax. When a woman reaches her climax, it is almost a reverse working to the man. The little hard-on explodes, the clitoris disappears, and you can feel the whole body shake in ecstasy like a spastic movement, uncontrollable once it gets going.

As I concentrated on my new play toy, Lisa, her body seemed to me to give forth an aroma of honeysuckle in the spring, and the taste of her was like honey to this hungry bee. As I stimulated her clitoris, her hands sought my head to explore deeper and deeper. All of a sudden I felt the urge to be a man, if only I could fill the deeper void that lay within! In quickening strokes she lifted her body and encircled my head with her thighs, until her body poured out to me, and my cheeks and lips became moist.

Lisa and I awoke as from a dream and became aware of our male companions. Almost immediately Marvin frantically went down on me while the Texan made love to Lisa. We were perspiring, and our bodies made squishy-squishy noises. Breathing was loud, mixed with moans from me and the delicate, passionate Lisa.

The combinations and appetites were inexhaustible, and it was almost morning before the bewildered Texan, not quite believing what had happened, dressed and left. After Marvin and Lisa departed, I slept, utterly fulfilled.

And that was the beginning of a swinging period for me, even though I was going steady with Paul and was still very much in love with him.

However, the syndrome was disconcertingly similar to the Carl affair. As with Carl, I confessed the episode with Lisa and Marvin to Paul, more or less hoping he would realize what he was driving me to. But instead of commiserating, his first words were: “When can we all get together?”

Paul had never been in a swing, and I should have made sure it stayed that way. I had had enough bitter experience to know that converting straights into swingers usually pushes them past the point of no return.

But in order to please Paul, I organized a dinner date with the couple, after which we all went back to his apartment. I had to orchestrate the scene and even though I didn’t want the swing, I did not want to be regarded as the wet blanket.

We pulled Paul’s bed out into the middle of the room and all piled on naked and started doing our thing. I began by kissing my man’s nipples, intending gradually to work my way down to his penis, but when I got there, Lisa the shrinking violet had already arrived.

She was sucking his cock and all over his body, and she obviously dug him. And I could see it was mutual. They were completely engrossed in each other, while I was going crazy with jealousy.

If I have no emotions for the man I am with, then I can swing, but if I am in love I can’t stand the fact that he is enjoying himself with another woman, even if that other woman had been my own lover for one night.

That night I couldn’t face the reality of my man enjoying himself with Lisa; fucking, sucking and eating her delicious pussy. I got so upset I walked from the room with a long face and phoned my answering service, just to keep myself occupied.

Marvin, whom I liked talking to but for whom I had no physical desire, came out and started eating and kissing me all over, but his mouth was too wet and slobbery, and I was in no mood to have his saliva drip all over me.

Finally I was too uptight to take it any longer, so I suggested everyone go home and leave Paul and me alone to sleep together. This didn’t appeal to my lover very much, and he was surly the rest of the night.

More and more on our few precious nights together he would ask me: “Why don’t you call up a girl friend and invite her around?”

As I really loved him so much, I would go out of my way to turn girls from straights into swingers, even if they didn’t turn me on. It would occasionally be fun for half an hour, then Paul or the girl would get possessive and act as though I did not exist. One girl actually cried when I pointed out she was the one that should go home.

The rot was really setting into our relationship. Now I did all the giving and Paul the taking.

My life was hectic at that time, as it always is in winter, when men are hornier for some reason or other. And the combination of the strain on the love affair and my professional life started to exhaust me.

Our meetings became more infrequent and fleeting, and eventually reached the point where I lost all physical desire for Paul. I even started introducing him to my girl friends without feeling any jealousy whatsoever.

However, Paul and I did share a mutual telephone hang-up, and we still spent many hours on the phone talking and joking. You may call it telephonitis. Or perhaps it was merely an extension of our Continental sense of humor. In any case, we continued to relate to each other on the phone.

I love to groove on voices, and I sometimes think I can almost tell the way a person looks by talking to him on the phone for a while.

I am often absolutely right – and occasionally disastrously wrong, as in the case of Nestor, the hot-line caller from Detroit.

Nestor was given my name by a client of mine who came from Nestor’s own hometown. He took to making lengthy, expensive phone calls every day for weeks. He really sounded divine.

From the sound of his voice I imagined him to be six-foot-three, built like a pro football player, and devastatingly handsome.

He was a little arrogant, but in a nice way. He was rich, but not braggy. And he told me about his magnificent townhouse in a nice, unassuming way. His calls made me feel good while I was working, and I looked forward to hearing from him each afternoon.

Eventually Nestor extended an invitation for me to spend a weekend with him in Detroit, and even hinted it could lead to more serious things. I accepted with alacrity.

For the few days before our scheduled weekend together I was floating on air and telling everybody, “I think this is it, I think I’ve found the man I’m going to marry.”

On the Friday when I was packing to leave, he called me and suggested I pack some dirty movies, just for laughs.

“My projector broke down,” I lied to him. I didn’t want to convert this straight, masculine-sounding man into anything freaky. I wanted to start out on the right footing and remain there. “Never mind the projector,” he said. “I have a good one.”

“Why are you stressing the point about those lousy movies?” I asked. “I’m getting away from that scene, and I don’t want to be faced with them on my weekend.”

“Well, darling, just bring them along for the hell of it,” he urged.

“Okay,” I agreed. “But please don’t expect me to watch them.” Then I left for the airport. All the way to Detroit I fantasized about the weekend to come with this multimillionaire who, my friend had told me, had the reputation of also being very good in bed.

Nestor was at the airport to meet me – all skinny five-foot-five of him. In rapid succession my dreams began to crumble. Not only had my hero feet of clay, but legs of matchwood and the face of a midget mustachioed magician. The nice arrogance that came through on the phone was in reality an almost insufferable snottiness.

The only thing that was true to the image was his wealth. Nestor brought me to his magnificent townhouse, which had exquisitely decorated rooms and old masters on the walls.

But apart from that, he had all the charm of a turtle and was as amusing as a traffic accident.

The house was very quiet, and all I could hear was this cross-eyed Siamese cat with no claws meowing around the place.

So Nestor played with the cat, fed it, turned the television on, and we watched all these people from the Apollo walking around on the moon.

Around midnight I was starving hungry, so he finally put a brisket of beef in the oven, which was great. I hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in a year, because I was just running out for a quick bite to eat in between working.

You would think I would love this kind of country atmosphere, but in honesty, I was bored stiff.

All this man did was fuck me, one, two, three times, turn on ten different vibrators and dildos, then start putting on all the movies, broke two of mine and promised to splice them in the morning, which he never did.

Then at three-thirty A.M. we sat down to dinner, and at five A.M. we finally went to sleep.

At nine A.M. I was up and peppy, and I wanted to make a few phone calls to New York. But Nestor was snoring away, and he got mad at me. “Why don’t you go to sleep till about three this afternoon?” he asked.

“Sleep until three in the afternoon? In New York I am up and out at nine A.M. – always. I never sleep more than four hours,” I replied.

So he got up irritably, and all he did was change the sheets and put the old ones in the Laundromat, wash the dishes, and give the cross-eyed cat some food.

I helped him with the sheets, and I said, “I could do this at home, too. I wanted to have some interesting conversation, go to the theater or go out for a bite to eat, and perhaps see some of the city.”

Then I made up my mind I wanted to take a plane back to New York. I called the airport and made a booking for four o’clock that afternoon.

As we were sitting in the kitchen just before I was to leave, I said, “Since you offered on the phone to pay for my trip, would you mind giving me the eighty-four dollars before we get into the car; otherwise you might forget.”

Then Nestor started yelling at me. “What do you think I am? I’m not one of your married ones that pay you, I am a bachelor. I didn’t hire you to come over.”

“I know you didn’t hire a whore,” I said. “And I didn’t charge you for it. Because if I did charge you for being fucked five times, it would have cost you several hundred dollars. So all I ask you is that you keep your promise to pay for my ticket, because I’m not spending money to come over and see you.”

“Girls come from all over the country to see me.” He started to preen slightly. “Even from California.”

“Bully for them,” I said. “But I’m not a charity whore.”

Then he started accusing me of being too independent.

“You think you are one smart little chick,” he snarled, “because you have managed to save a lousy few thousand dollars. But if you were really smart,” he added, “you would marry a man like me.” He really wanted to keep me there.

“I’m a nice Jewish boy, I’m thirty-five years old now, and my mother is getting upset because I’m not married. She’s always trying to fix me up with rich Jewish girls, but I don’t want a rich girl. I need a woman, I want to have children.”

“Well, not with me, baby,” I said. “You bore me senseless.”

“You’re insulting me,” he said. “I wanted you to marry me and have my children, and you are so ungrateful. Besides, think of all the good business I could have sent you from General Motors!”