Each of the women sporadically took patrons to an open stall for a perfunctory blowjob, but her rate was too slow to accommodate everyone. When the blond led a towelled youth to a stall, four other men followed and watched from the sidelines.
“I think they only have to go with boys that they like,” my friend observed. “It was better at Club Xcstasy” (a club that lost its lease). “The girls got paid on a quota basis.”
The Zoo seemed neither a swingers’ club nor a whorehouse, but more an “anti-whorehouse” where sexual favors were dispensed by whim. On the way out I noticed that the video crowd had dispersed with their towels and were now openly masturbating.
Acquiesce, another single swinger’s club, was as low key in its advertisements as the Zoo was extravagant. No address was listed—only a number to call for a reservation. The premises were described as “a discreet, posh and comfortable atmosphere.” Acquiesce turned out to be a duplex apartment in one of the better commercial neighborhoods on Manhattan’s East Side.
I was buzzed in from the street. A surprisingly attractive woman sat behind the front desk. The first thing I had to do was pay the $85 fee. I hoped it would be worth it. The first floor, though neither posh nor large, housed a small dance floor, bar, buffet, seating for perhaps fifteen people and showers. I was led to a checkroom by a teddy-wearing black girl. My clothes went into a garment bag in exchange for a towel. Ten men were seated around the bar area. They were somewhat more refined looking and of a wider age mix than the patrons at the Zoo, but they were equally sullen, as if awaiting root canal surgery instead of an orgy. I sat next to a paunchy, middle-aged man.
“Is this your first time here?” he asked. When I nodded he pointed to a girl in a black corselet and stockings who was dancing with a young Chinaman. “Watch out for her. She likes to talk and tease but she seldom delivers.” I wondered what place a “tease” had in a swing club.
Armed with a bourbon and water, I took in the surroundings. The atmosphere was more pleasant and relaxed than at the Zoo. The arithmetic was better, too—four male patrons per woman. Some of the latter looked untouchable—one turned out to be a transsexual. Several were moderately attractive. Most even managed to smile at the clientele. One gazed in my direction. Unlike the others, she was fully dressed. When I asked her why, she said this was her first night and she had not brought an outfit.
Marlene was twenty, and claimed to be a part-time art student and party girl for a group of Saudi Arabian playboys. She found her way into Acquiesce after being abandoned by her oil daddies. For a half hour we talked about art and Arab orgies. Meanwhile I monitored the room. The black girl who showed me to the cloakroom had led a man with too many gold chains up the spiral staircase to the orgy floor. The corseleted teaser had followed with the Chinaman in tow. I figured Marlene and I should do likewise. “Not right now,” she demurred. “Maybe later. Why don’t you go if you want?” So I did, armed with another glass of bourbon.
Upstairs I found a small sauna flanked by two orgy rooms. The smaller was relegated to couples only and was empty, while the larger one featured porn videos. It was crowded with a half-dozen men and two women. The black girl was sitting on the face of her partner, while the teaser performed a business-like blowjob on the Oriental. Despite the distraction of cunnilingus, the black woman kept up an animated conversation with several other customers. This fact did not seem to disturb the tanned suitor beneath her. I joined her audience. She stared at me with mock indignation.
“Whatta you want?” she demanded.
“A blowjob!” I replied.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Okay!”
And so, to my surprise, she moved forward, dragging the man below her after reassuring him that she would soon be coming all over his face. He responded to this prospect with muffled sounds of approval. She leaned over in such a way that I could not see my genitals. Soon I felt a strange sensation on my cock. Leaning sideways I saw that she had slipped a condom on me. I told her that I had not come inside a condom in at least twenty years, and that it was a record I intended to keep intact. She reluctantly removed the condom but warned me not to come in her mouth. I thought this over for a moment, then informed her I would just as soon pass. She shrugged, pulled herself up and concentrated on rubbing her crotch into the cunnilinguist’s face.
Meanwhile the tease stopped blowing the Chinaman and sat up, saying: “I just remembered, I have to make a phone call.” The unfortunate Oriental stared quizzically at his abandoned cock.
“See what I mean?” It was Morty, the man who had warned me about her. I asked him how often he visited Acquiesce. When he said twice a month, I ventured to ask why. “I don’t always get laid,” he answered, “but I like the atmosphere and even the element of chance.”
Downstairs again I sought out Marlene. The boys were in a hubbub because a genuine swinging couple had entered the club. Marlene sat at the bar, still fully dressed and looking disconsolate.
Finally, Marlene, true to the name of the place, acquiesced. I followed her up the staircase feeling as if I were on a date—in a bordello. We entered the larger of the orgy rooms and found the swinging couple engaged in 69 in front of a predictable audience. Settling into a corner we were quickly attended by three men, who positioned themselves several feet away like vultures awaiting their next meal.
Marlene was only interested in the basics. She neither wished to eat me or to be eaten. After some brief kissing and fondling, she insisted that I fuck her. This I did with moderate enthusiasm, scanning the room occasionally for visual stimulation—which turned out to be the swinging couple. They were now fucking and apparently enjoying the attention.
After climaxing, and while still atop Marlene, I had a funny feeling and looked over my shoulder. My audience was masturbating. When Marlene left, they turned to watch the exhibitionistic couple. The Chinaman was now with the transsexual. Amazingly, the black girl was still being eaten by the cunnilinguist. But most of the men were without a partner. I decided to leave. On the way out I saw Marlene talking to a newly arrived young man about art.
THE FAMILY MISTRESS
Marian was almost six feet tall and in her late forties. She had a wild, long mane whose orange-red color came out of a bottle. She drank whisky, elbowed you when she laughed, and spoke with a twang. She was a whore, but called herself a real estate agent. She was also my father’s old girlfriend.
I had never met Marian. After my father died, she kept in touch with my family only through an old-maid aunt. But one day I happened to visit my aunt while Marian was also paying a call. When we were introduced, she gave my hand an extra little tug. My spinster aunt was oblivious to the conversational subtext that Marian then began to supply through body language and innuendo. She hiked her dress up a notch, worried the frills of her plunging neckline, winked and squirmed as if in heat, and more than once remarked, “I never knew Jim was such a handsome, grown-up man.” She left only after I promised to pay her a visit soon.
A few nights later Marian called and invited me over. “I told all of my boyfriends to stay away,” she coyly informed me, “so an old family friend and I can be alone.”
But when I knocked at the front door, a blonde woman in a tight blue dress greeted me. Introducing herself as Marian’s roommate Betty, she led me into the living room. The look in her eyes and tone of voice suggested deep complicity—that we both knew why I was there. Betty was in her early thirties and identified herself as a “beauty operator.” She smelled of cheap perfume and revealed even more bosom and thigh than Marian. She also flirted outrageously like Marian, telling me how lucky her friend was to have such an attractive young man for a “family friend.” Giggling like a naughty little girl, she entertained me with a string of lewd jokes.
Moments later Marian entered, resplendent in an exotic dressing gown the color of her hair. Drinks were served. The women sat on either side of me and the conversation was mainly about sex. Though that was a
lso what I had in mind, I did not realize at first that Betty and Marian were prostitutes. The decor of the house even had a bordello flavor, with a preponderance of smoked mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and large cheap prints of nudes on the walls. But the main attraction was the dining room, hidden by a silk curtain. On the pretext of needing more ice from the kitchen, Marian parted the veil and led me within.
A king-size bed sat throne-like in the middle of the room, raised up on a platform. The walls were covered with green velour and the ceiling was mirrored. The only other furniture was an ornate brass bar.
“I’m very particular about my sleep,” Marian confided.
A few minutes later all three of us were stretched out on the big bed. I was nervous, never having been in a threesome before, and wondered about my ability to satisfy two professionals. But my doubts paled before the absolute certitude that I would have the orgiastic time of my life. Then the doorbell rang.
Marian rose to admit a powerfully built middle-aged man whom she introduced as Al. As a newspaper reporter I recognized our visitor as a disreputable union official. He regarded me with hostile suspicion, clearly unconvinced by Marian’s story that she and I were old family friends.
“We’re having a family reunion,” she explained.
“And I know where you’ll have it,” he muttered, aiming a thumb at the dining room.
Marian and Al went off to the temple of love, leaving Betty and me alone on the couch. “Some nerve,” Betty sighed. “He thinks he owns her. Doesn’t want her to see other men. But,” she added with a giggle, “he doesn’t care who I see.”
Betty brought me upstairs to her bedroom, undressed me, and licked my body from top to bottom. When I entered her she started squealing, biting and talking dirty. She came seven times in rapid succession before I ejaculated and afterwards tried unsuccessfully to arouse me again. But I did not find Betty attractive. She was cheap and dumb, and lacked Marian’s panache. While astride Betty I imagined that I was fucking my father’s old girlfriend.
In the days that followed, I called Marian several times, but she put me off. Weeks passed. I assumed that I had only been a passing fancy. Then one night she phoned and asked me to accompany her to a boat show.
We wandered for hours through an enormous arena with floatable feasts of every description. Marian showed no apparent sexual interest in me and greeted my innuendos with stony silence. She inspected this boat and that, asked pertinent questions, and collected brochures. “I’m checking them out for a friend,” she explained mysteriously.
Only when we arrived before a stupendously expensive houseboat did she nudge me with her elbow. A familiar leer returned to her mouth as she contemplated its possibilities. Making our way to the captain’s quarters, she sat down on the luxurious bed, testing it, and said with a knowing smile, “I’m very particular about my sleep.”
That night, on the main bed in the dining room, Marian treated me to an extraordinary new sensation. As I lay on my back, she brought me to an orgasm by skillfully applying pressure on my cock with her pelvic muscles. The effect was ecstasy in slow motion, with release advancing by minute degrees.
Marian’s body was voluptuous and practically unmarred by the rigors of age. She was particularly proud of her breasts, and could climax when I sucked on them. She also initiated me into anal sex, applying the Vaseline on my cock herself and urging me to be rough.
From this and other clues I understood that Marian’s clients preferred primitive to missionary sex. She explained how she earned lucrative real estate commissions by acting as a broker in deals arranged by influential friends. She denied receiving money in direct payment for sex, saying that she earned her income with a higher-class brand of service.
That night our relationship as “family friends” began to bloom in earnest. She had no close relatives except for a brother whom she seldom saw. Until early morning we discussed mutual acquaintances. By the time we fell asleep it seemed impossible that I could ever fuck her again. We had become “family.”
A few days later I found Al waiting for me in front of my house. Without directly threatening me, he told me to stay away from Marian. “I don’t care whether you’re a family friend or not,” he grumbled.
I phoned Marian often in succeeding weeks, but she nervously put off seeing me. She also travelled frequently to places like Mexico, Florida and Arizona. Her sexual aloofness, the specter of Al, and our evolving relationship as “family” combined to cool my passion. Once more I concluded that I had been a momentary diversion.
Eight months went by. I never heard from Marian anymore. When she called me one night in tears, I did not recognize her voice. She phoned to tell me her brother was dead and wanted me to take her to the funeral in a little town a hundred miles away.
“You’re the only family I’ve got now,” she whimpered.
We drove down the next morning in her flashy Chrysler convertible. Marian dressed in black and sat in the passenger seat. Despite the occasion she looked sexier than ever behind her veil. The previous night I had spent long hours remembering her skills as a lover. Yet I felt frustrated by the circumstances of our getting together again. We would be spending two nights in the same motel, but a funeral hardly seemed an appropriate occasion to renew a love affair.
Despite her grief, Marian sensed my erotic obsession with her body. For two hours I monitored the crack between her knees, every gesture of her hand or flick of her tongue, the rise and fall of her breasts. But we arrived in town with me feeling more uncertain about her erotic intentions than ever.
We spent the day and night at the wake. Marian was surrounded by family and friends. By the time we returned to the hotel she was exhausted. We retired to our separate rooms.
The next morning by prearrangement I brought her breakfast in bed. She wore a lacy nightgown and made no attempt to cover herself. I sat at the edge of the bed, trying to disguise my erection. The one valuable piece of information I had picked up yesterday was that Marian and her Baptist brother had not spoken for twenty-five years. I also detected a faint smile of satisfaction on her face when she stood before the bier.
The day of the wake passed equally uneventfully. Again we returned to the motel exhausted by conversation and tedium. By now Marian had said her farewells.
In the morning I brought her breakfast in bed, only this time she was wearing a robe over her nightgown. All night I schemed how to take advantage of this moment—consoling arm around her bare shoulder, a gentle embrace, followed by an uncontrollable outburst of passion. According to my way of thinking, sexual release was just the tonic Marian needed to get over the loss of her brother. It was certainly the only way I knew to get rid of my forty-eight-hour erection. But I had not counted on Marian’s show of modesty. It was even more perplexing when she asked me to hook her brassiere in back. Afterwards she made me leave the room.
We did not talk on the drive back, though the tension was palpable. Marian no longer wore her black veil, but was smoking, dialing the radio, and in general acting nervous and aloof. At one point the generator light flashed red and I joked: “This car is as hot as I am.” She pursed her lips, suppressing a laugh, but said nothing. A few moments later I blurted. “Why don’t we stop at some roadside motel?” She shook her head.
“I’m not leaving when we get to your house,” I warned her.
“Al is coming by tonight,” she replied. “Remember him?”
“What do you and Al do?” I asked. “What is he like in bed?”
Marian’s expression was enigmatic. “He’s a degenerate,” she stated simply.
When we got to Marian’s house, Al was waiting in the living room. Suddenly emboldened, I decided to play a concerned member of the family and expel the outsider.
“Marian’s tired and has a headache,” I told him. “She has to lie down. You’d better leave. Come back tomorrow.” Taking him by the arm, I ushered him to the door. There he hesitated, looking to Marian for a sign. She nodded in agreement
with my plan.
As soon as he drove away, I led Marian towards the big bed, lay her down, and slowly removed her shoes. She remained silent and impassive as I undressed her piece by piece, though by now our eye contact had become fairly serious. She seemed to be saying: “You’re being awfully bold, but I’m enjoying it.” I was definitely sending the message: “You bitch, you’re going to pay for tormenting me like that.”
Gently I positioned her in the middle of the bed. Then I dimmed the lights and poured myself a drink from the bar. Undressing, I sat beside her and admired her body. She had trimmed her pubic hair. Parting the lips of her vagina, I saw that she was wet.
“Don’t move,” I instructed her. “Don’t even lift an arm.”
By degrees I caressed and kissed her feet, thighs, flank, waist, breast, and neck, before parting her legs and entering her. Moaning slightly, she put an arm on my back. I replaced it on the bed beside her. Then, as slowly as possible, I began to thrust. She writhed and twisted, shuddered quietly, convulsed a few more times, then lay still. My own orgasm flashed exquisitely up my spine. When I looked down at Marian, she seemed to be pleasantly shocked. It was probably the first time that she had remained absolutely passive in bed.
As I was leaving, Al came up the front steps. My knees felt weak, but I stopped him and said: “Don’t disturb her. She’s sleeping.”
I never saw Marian again. Not long afterwards I moved out of town. For years she stayed in touch with my spinster aunt. Then the family lost track of her.
THE VIRGIN AND THE STOWAWAY
I woke up feeling the hum of the ship’s screws and knew that we were at sea—at sea, for God’s sake! I’d done it! I swung my feet out of the bunk and sat up, rubbing my head. Jesus! I had stowed away on the boat!
I did not even know where I was going. I had been down and out in Miami. After a night of drinking I had found myself with no place to go. All my worldly possessions were locked up by a third-rate hotel that I owed two weeks rent to. So I drank up what money I had and wandered, for lack of any place else to go, to the docks. There I sat with my bloodshot eyes flinching from the brilliance of the white-on-white streamlined hull of the cruise ship Evening Star. The dock workers were sweating up her gangways, loading her up with good things for the trip out.
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