Teachers learn from students and students from teachers. And often we end up making love. And it has damn little to do with grades. I have twenty-five years of teaching ahead of me and I’m looking forward to every golden year of it. As they say in the profession, all you need is one good student in each class to make the job worthwhile. And I’ve sure as hell had that.
THE DEFLOWERING OF A LESBIAN STRIPPER
Terri, a delicate, attractive twenty-four-year-old woman, straddled me and guided my penis into her vagina. Then she rocked mechanically back and forth on her hips. From the beginning of foreplay her lovemaking had been passive almost to the point of disinterest. I was incredulous. The last place I had expected to find prosaic sex was in a stripper’s bed.
I was a rock musician on tour. Earlier that evening a mutual friend had introduced me to Terri in the Houston nightclub where I was playing.
“I’m not an exotic dancer,” Terri informed me. “I’m a stripper.” She affected a world-weary, matter-of-fact monotone. But occasionally when recounting a bizarre detail in her life story—how her agent doublecrossed her or how a girlfriend had been murdered—she would suddenly burst into a giggle. And I would smile back to show that I sympathized with her often harrowing line of work.
Naturally, I found her lovemaking later that night not only lackluster but incongruous. Terri made her living as sexbomb April Magnolia. Yet she was a bad fuck. While performing she was ogled by sleazy businessmen and horny truckdrivers. Afterward she circulated among the crowd, inviting men to share a bottle of champagne with her in a back room for fifty dollars. I naively assumed that Terri would welcome uninhibited recreational sex as a change of pace.
Terri’s place was off limits. Whenever she was in town a middle-aged man put her up for a few weeks so long as she occasionally slept with him. So we went to bed at her girlfriend’s apartment.
Drawing Terri toward me, I nipped at a breast while reaching down to play with her clitoris. Her body was lithe and athletic, though uncannily white, as if untouched by sunlight. Delicately pink, hard nipples crowned her small breasts. My erection reasserted itself as my fingers ran through her tuft of pubic hair. I wanted her even more when I realized she shaved the edges of her cunt to make it look attractive on stage. I was sucking on a breast that thousands of men paid just to look at.
Yet her vagina was not wet. Her dry labia bunched up as I ran my finger along them. Cupping some saliva with my fingers, I slid a finger into her, then gently rubbed her clitoris with my thumb. But I observed no twitch of excitement and heard no soft moan of pleasurable enjoyment.
Terri’s unresponsiveness was confusing. She had suggested that we spend the night together. She had also smiled mischievously and grabbed my erect penis while I was undressing. Now she seemed to be only enduring what she had precipitated. I felt both seduced and unwanted at the same time.
I mounted her and we screwed almost cursorily. Terri clung to me, but her fingernails did not dig. She moved her hips in rhythm with mine, but her head barely moved. Her snug vagina remained fairly dry thoughout. Mercifully, I came before long. “This isn’t exotic,” I thought. “This is like being married.”
Afterward we lay together on the bed, neither of us feeling any post-coital reverie. Terri stared at the ceiling, looking out from under the curly brown hair that hovered just over her eyes, framing her face and falling to her shoulders.
“I was a lesbian until last year,” she said, still staring at the ceiling. “But I’ve gotten to know a few guys lately—mostly musicians—so now I just go to bed with people I like. I don’t care what sex they are.
“I got started on girls with Kim,” she continued, referring to the girl whose bed we were in. “I’ve been on the street since I was twelve. My mama kicked me out because she didn’t like the boys I was running with. Things were pretty bad for a while—these old guys hitting me up with junk and sending me out on the street. Then I started dancing go-go at this club when I was fifteen. I’d been living in a car off and on, but Kim—she was dancing at this place—had me move in with her. She was my first girlfriend, and after that I just kept going with girls I was working with. About every stripper I’ve ever met was a lesbian.”
I realized that Terri’s stiffness in bed was not incompetence. She was just tentative about having sex with men she liked. Oddly enough, she did not know quite what to do with a guy if she was not getting fifty dollars to sleep with him.
We talked a long time before falling asleep. Terri told me how she wanted to stop dancing before she got too old to strip, and before the business finally succumbed to peep shows and massage parlors. When we awoke after our first night together, we felt more at ease with each other.
Taking my penis in her hand, Terri looked at it in a tentative way. Then she straddled me and eased herself onto my erect penis. She held it firmly at the base, pushing the head against her clitoris as she ground her thighs into my ribs. Her pink labia were slightly swollen and easily visible beneath her mat of cropped pubic hair. She was wet now, too. Abruptly she shoved me inside her, dropping down with all her weight and gasping. As she began to move she slowly drew her right hand up her thigh, feeling her own soft skin, stroking her own firm muscles. She rolled her nipples between her thumb and forefinger. Then she began to strum her clitoris, starting slowly, then getting faster as her rocking increased in speed.
Terri masturbated for a long time as we fucked. Sometimes she anxiously pushed her finger into her vagina, sliding it in with my penis in order to get it wet. Then she would resume masturbating. I writhed under her as she rubbed herself, but she never seemed to reach orgasm, nor to care. Watching was both exciting and disturbing at the same time—exciting because I was privy to such a private act, disturbing because I wondered whether she was fantasizing about a girlfriend while having sex with me.
We spent the afternoon shooting pool and drinking beer in a corner tavern near the apartment. Terri arranged her conversation around her movements. While describing how the Mafia burned an independent club she was working in, she would leave the narrative hanging as she popped a solid into the side pocket, then finish her sentence.
When we left the bar late in the afternoon, we were tipsy enough to be staggered by the sunlight. As we aimlessly wandered along a row of shops and bars, Terri rested her head against my shoulder and held my arm. At a street corner she said she needed to talk to a friend who was the desk clerk at a private hotel in the next block. She asked me to buy some beer and then come to meet her friend. As I set off alone, thinking about the past night, I became increasingly frustrated and disturbed. I had expected to find this affair unusually sensual and was nonplussed that it had turned out to be so sexless. I wondered if Terri’s tawdry job had so infected her perception of human emotions that she had become a sexual cripple. Perhaps stripping was even an escape for her. Onstage she could allure a faceless crowd of men. But she was always able to scamper offstage before the moment of confrontation.
When I arrived from the liquor store, six-pack in hand, Terri was just turning away from the clerk’s desk.
“Brian had an empty room he said we could use for a while,” she said, pushing the elevator button. “He’s gay, like almost every other man I know. Thank God you’re not.”
Though sex that morning had been better than the night before, I was surprised that Terri seemed inclined to pursue it. We had enjoyed our day together, and she was unhappy about my departure later that night. But she had also seemed more avid for billiards than sex.
The furnished room had shades but no drapes, a shower without a curtain, a sheetless bed. I started to open a beer, but Terri immediately began to undress us.
We kissed a few times in the stilted sort of way that makes sticking your tongue in someone else’s mouth seem like a Three Stooges gag. Then we settled down to just stroking each other, feeling our bodies together. I rubbed my genitals against her thigh as she thrust her pelvis against mine. Soon we were not just going through the mot
ions of having sex. Our movements were quickened by genuine passion. Terri tugged ever more insistently at my penis. I easily pushed two fingers through the wet opening of her vagina. Terri turned her head to mine and put her mouth to my ear.
“I’ve got a virgin ass,” she whispered, “and I want you to fuck it.”
She turned over, lying flat on the bed. I propped her up on her knees, licked and sucked her anus, then slid a finger in and out to relax the sphincter muscles. Then I slowly inserted my penis into her, a fraction of an inch at a time. After I had fully penetrated her, I remained still for a few moments to allow her to become more accustomed to the position. And then, gradually and gently, I began to thrust.
Terri remained utterly still. Each time I pushed forward she caught her breath. At first she sounded apprehensive. Then she began to inhale more sharply as apprehension gave way to excitement. She also rotated her ass, meeting my pressure with her own. I came hard, plunging deep into her in the final convulsion of orgasm.
Terri slid forward. I stayed on top of her, feeling my erection subside as her anus tightened and squeezed out my penis. She breathed softly, quickly, not moving. Then quietly she began to cry.
“I’ve never let anyone do that,” she murmured as I kissed the tears on her cheek. “I guess I wanted to let you know how much I like you.” Her world-weary tone of voice was gone. She had finally let the barriers down.
I did not see Terri again until nearly six months later, when my band’s traveling schedule brought us through town again. After we played our first gig, Terri and I went back to the house where some musician friends were letting the band stay. We trudged past a roomful of strangers who were watching a twenty-four-hour rock channel on TV. On the third floor we found a tiny attic bedroom with a slanted ceiling and a huge bed that nearly filled the room.
Terri slipped out of her fur jacket, sat on the edge of the bed and stripped off her leg warmers. A skin-tight black body suit was all she had worn underneath.
“I really need you tonight,” she said, seductively smiling at me. From the moment I first saw her on this visit, Terri’s cool manner was nowhere in evidence. She was acting like a saucy teenager who wants to be undressed and says so with a sidelong glance and a smile.
I pulled her to her feet and peeled the body suit off of her in one long motion. As I slipped out of my shirt and trousers, Terri pushed open a window next to the bed.
“It’s cool out,” she declared. “Let’s get hot.”
Taking my penis, Terri rubbed it against her breasts, by turns glancing up at me and looking down to see the head of my cock shoved against her nipple. I shifted my weight and moved my pelvis toward her mouth. She licked me a couple of times and mumbled, “I don’t know if you want me to do this.”
“Why?” I asked, wondering if a “reformed” lesbian has to draw the line somewhere.
“Well, I don’t know. I just don’t think I’m very good at it. I’m really embarrassed to tell you that.”
“There’s no real secret to it,” I replied. “Just try it and I’ll tell you what feels good.” I rather enjoyed giving a lesson in the joys of sex to April Magnolia, queen of titillation. “It’s most sensitive just under the head, where there’s a little loose skin.”
As Terri took me in her mouth, she rubbed under the glans with her tongue. “You can put more pressure on than that,” I urged.
She sucked harder.
“That’s good,” I continued. “Now move it in and out and keep the pressure on, especially below. That’s real nice.”
She moved her head back and forth, hesitantly at first, and gradually with more confidence and skill.
“Bite it a little, grab it around the base with your hand,” I suggested.
A few times she stopped sucking and experimentally flicked her tongue up and down the shaft of my penis. I twitched with pleasure and Terri, regarding me with curiosity, would flick me again and smile.
Then she tried to see how deep she could take my cock into her mouth. I grew increasingly excited as Terri kept trying out different ways of fellating me. I was eager to come, but every time I reached the brink of orgasm she would pause to reflect on this whole wonderful business of oral sex.
Finally I pulled her on top of me. Instantly she maneuvered my penis inside her and began to pound her pelvis into mine. Each time she slammed into me she uttered a quiet little scream. I held her ass, feeling how wet she was and slipping a finger into her anus. She pumped harder and harder, then yelped as she swayed from side to side, riding out her orgasm. Just as she finished, I grabbed her buttocks again, driving her up and down until I came, delirious with orgasm and the sense of breaking through her jaded sexuality.
For a long while afterward we lay still, smiling and feeling the cool air dry the slick sweat on our bodies.
SINGLE SWING CLUBS HARDLY SWING
A porn video was being projected on the wall of a darkened room. Five men stalked actress Vanessa Del Rio in a movie theatre. Encircled, she sank to her knees. In the flickering shadow of the movie a nude couple reclined on a mattress, casually masturbating each other. While Del Rio avidly sucked one of the men, the real-life pair increased their tempo. Briefly they engaged in 69 before the man mounted the woman and fucked her.
Couples making love to a porn film are not unusual. But on this particular Friday night in New York there was a critical difference. The couple had an audience. Five nude men sat within touching distance of their intertwined bodies. Several were masturbating, not to the film, but to the man and woman at their feet.
As the movie galloped to a climax, Del Rio accommodated all five men at once—orally, vaginally, anally and one at each hand. But none of the men in the room dared to caress the woman making love before them. Instead they merely observed—while hoping for an invitation to join in.
These men were also watched by the lovemaking couple, whose attention vacillated from TV screen to audience in a game of mutual voyeurism. The film ended with the usual “money shot”—the quintet coming over various parts of Del Rio’s body. Soon afterward the couple reached a vocal, apparently mutual, orgasm and disengaged. The five men dispersed.
This bizarre scene is not unusual in single swing clubs in New York. Many men fantasize about participating in group sex, but few convert their dream to reality without the acquiescence of a willing partner. Though the number of swingers is legion and that of swing clubs ample, the standard rule of orgies—whether private or public—is that only a male and female couple is admitted. Plato’s Retreat allows single males in on certain nights. But those who attend often find themselves at a stag party.
One solution to this problem is the escort service. More than thirty exist in New York and most offer a swing club package. Single men are supplied with a date at $100 an hour and up for a minimum of two hours. Thus some men must pay—including the club’s entrance fee—at least $300 to attend an orgy.
But many partnerless swingers cannot afford, or refuse to spend, $300 to gain entrance to Plato’s. Now they have an alternative: the single male’s swing club. Advertising in such periodicals as Screw and The Village Voice, these establishments claim to attract not only males but lone females and couples. But are they really the answer to the solo swinger’s dreams or are they an aberrant variety of bordello? I decided to find out.
My first stop was the Zoo in Times Square, which claimed to have “New York’s largest group of regular women members eager to meet men for sex.”
A representative of the club assured me by phone that it did not pay women to frequent the premises. When I expressed doubt, he insisted that the Zoo regularly attracted swinging couples with the female half obliging all of the male customers.
The Zoo was located in a cellar beneath a huge marquee reading “Adult Activity, No Escort Needed!” At the bottom of a stairway sat a man in a glass booth who took my sixty-dollar entrance fee and buzzed me through a black metal door.
Stuffed animals hung from the ceiling. I walked
past a buffet table containing a few cold cuts. Nearby were about a dozen towel-clad men, mostly in their twenties, watching porn videos on a giant TV screen. They looked as if they were in a prison recreation room.
Shown to a checkroom, I deposited my clothes in a plastic bin and received a towel in exchange. Next to the buffet were two ramshackle metal shower stalls. Just beyond the video area was a small communal orgy room designed to resemble an aquarium. It was empty. On the other side was the main gathering area. Sitting at cafe tables were another dozen towel-clad men as well as three women in negligees. Opposite were several open stalls. Apparently, the sex took place here. Occupying one of them was a couple on a bench. As the woman leaned forward, listlessly giving the man a blowjob, he tried to snake his hand under her teddy.
“I said don’t play with me there!” she snapped in a voice that would have deflated the erection of a satyr. The man withdrew his hand.
During my quick tour I had counted eight males for every female. Yet the clientele seemed more apathetic than discontent. Evidently, the men were resigned to the sexual crap shoot.
The four women ranged from ugly to moderately attractive. I joined a group of men paying court to the prettiest—a dissipated blond prattling to a young man who sported an erection beneath his towel. Another fellow with a weightlifter’s build paraded nude in front of her table with a blazing hard-on. She ignored him. A third tried to fondle her thigh and had his hand swatted away. I tried to determine her swinger status, but my questions received no reply.
I moved on to the boys watching video. Several were now discreetly masturbating beneath their towels. One nodded to me as I sat down. “This sucks, doesn’t it?” he groused. He added that things were better last Friday when a swinging couple had showed up. “She wasn’t too good-looking, but it was better than paying sixty bucks to flog your dummy,” he said, nodding disgustedly toward the onanists.
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