Laura Meets Jeffrey

by Jeffrey Michelson

  “I’m Jeffrey.” We kiss and the same warmth that was on my dick is now on my mouth. Either this girl has a fever or her normal temperature is above 98.6.

  We put on robes and scoot down the hall to the little room.

  We throw our robes off and flow onto the bed. We lie down next to each other completely naked. I am overwhelmed by the magnetic texture of her flesh. I can’t believe that right after meeting Sherry, and encountering the best chemistry ever, I surpass it with the next woman I meet. My life must be going in the right direction.

  Laura and I skip the massage that usually starts these sessions, kiss wet and deep and feel each other all over, as frenetic as if our lives depend on how much surface we can cover. From this fast-forward appetizer, we get into real time as I steer my cock inside her. Then everything gets slo-mo. Her pussy is even warmer than the rest of her! Through the biochemical fog of lust that part of me in charge of self-preservation stops to ask if, in fact, she does have a fever. She chortles and speaks broken English as if it’s her second language, “No fever, please kiss more.”

  She smells great! Not perfume great but girl great. Her aroma and flavor jolt my emotions. The taste of her kiss tells me her pussy will be delicious. I know she is a whore, but I have to taste her. I am selective eating pussy even outside of whorehouses, but this I must sample. I pull out, instruct her to just lie there, and dive between her legs. My tongue and lips are delighted. It’s dessert! Her natural lubrication is thick and it’s sweet. I could put it on strawberries and serve it to my mother.

  I turn around and get back on top, squeeze my cock in, and look down at her. I’m on my elbows. I hold her head in my hands and arch up to keep my weight off her. I slide in and almost out, not straight like a piston but in wide looping orbits like a connecting rod to a camshaft. Laura turns her head to the side, kissing and sucking whatever part of my arms and hands she can reach, moaning and grunting.

  I take my hands from her head and restrain her wrists. She whimpers and submits. I never felt more desirous of controlling another woman.

  She says, “No one ever fucked me like this. I want it in my life.”

  She is long-limbed. Her legs are not shaved and I don’t mind. The hair is fine and sparse, feels nice and doesn’t tickle.

  We move, two tango dancers.

  The fuck gets fast.

  Harder.

  Tighter orbits.

  Pheromones rage.

  Hormones rule.

  I am a stallion.

  The part of me that decides when to have an orgasm says, “Now.” I start to come. Orgasm feels different from the first blush. Jumbo. Super jumbo. Every increment grips. It builds. Builds. BUILDS. Halfway there. Most intense ever. We are wired together though our eyes and the fuck. Breathing in synch. Gasping harmony. Her eyes so big. She starts to come.

  Poetry and fireworks.

  No one blinks.

  I can’t hold it.

  She/I erupt.

  She screams.

  I bellow.

  We are a duet of pleasure noises from before our species walked upright.

  I forget what I was thinking about. My head is empty.

  * * *

  If there is a God, it feels like this.

  * * *

  We don’t move.

  We still don’t move.

  We are silent.

  My cock surprises me by staying so hard it could cut diamonds. However big my penis can possibly be, it is. I roll on my side and she moves with me. We face each other. I return from the fuck to earth with hunger for attachment. I know she is a whore, but I want her forever. I found The Holy Vagina Grail. My nose lobbies for me to marry her immediately.

  This is the single best sex I ever had. Ever. More muscular. More pumping. Shakes me from the inside out.

  My connection to Laura grows every moment. The warmth, the smile, all the stuff you hear about in top-40 pop songs. They wouldn’t write about love at first sight if it didn’t sometimes happen.

  “You are wonderful,” I say.

  “You are wonderful,” she says.

  That’s what this is: love. Not just great chemistry, like I have with Sherry but love, like on a Hallmark anniversary card, like in the last scene of a chic flick, the feeling deep inside me that makes me know if need be, I would die to save her.

  I’d fucked many hookers in my life. Some encounters were terrific, mind-boggling, ultra-satisfying releases. I’d had many girlfriends. I’d been married and loved my wife. At orgies I’d fucked women I hadn’t even been introduced to, some whose names I never learned, some whose faces I never saw. I was thirty-four years old and I knew which end was up.

  I knew what it was like to fuck on acid, mescaline, peyote, mushrooms, grass, coke, Quaaludes, poppers and most of the chemical enhancements known to man. Or even Hunter Thompson. I’d used opiates and speed, which give you a lovely bone but make it nearly impossible to climax. This was different from all of that, and all I’d had were a few tokes.

  I’m lying there with Laura stroking my short beard, kissing my cheek, touching my brow, moving on my chrome molly cock. “Fuck me again from behind, please,” she requests. I stay inside her as we articulate into doggie style. I’m on my knees and hold her hips. She fucks in half time. I stop moving and watch her slow rhythm. My vision widens and again I see where I am. I’m finding romance in a sex marketplace.

  She charms the next orgasm out of me. We come together again, both too loud. We freeze, a snapshot of dogs fucking. A minute later a knock on the door means my time is up. We crumble into a double spoon cuddle, my dick finally softening. I stare at the back of her long aristocratic neck. What the fuck is this wonderful creature doing in a whorehouse? Is she like this with every man? Am I special? Is all that I feel one-sided?

  * * *

  A month before he died, Norman Mailer suggested I ask Laura, whom he knew, to add her side of the story. She agreed, read the manuscript, and revealed her thoughts in a series of interviews with Legs McNeil.

  “How did I get to the whorehouse?” Laura laughs and begins to explain. “Well, it’s kind of a long story. You see, my first husband, Sandy, and I had a very open relationship, and actually, I didn’t really have much sex with him. Sandy had a really giant cock. It was uncomfortable. He was so obsessed with his cock it was disturbing, so I didn’t even want to suck him off. So, no, we didn’t have much sex for the first five years.

  “Then he started having sex with other women. And then I started having a lot of sex with people. That was kind of my modus operandi. That’s what I would do—I would go into a club and find the most attractive guy or whoever got me hot at the time, and say,‘ ‘Let’s go fuck.’

  “So I was picking up guys—a lot—and being very wild and promiscuous.

  “Then Sandy and I went to California,” Laura continues, “and on the way we stopped in Reno, Nevada, and he gambled away every single penny we had. Every single penny! I was stoned and goofing around and having a good time and came back and discovered that Sandy had a gambling addiction. I don’t even know if he knew he had one. Sandy used up our entire credit card and the only thing we had was the van—and the gas in it. And that was it.

  “Sandy had gambled away $10,000 in like two hours playing blackjack so now we are $10,000 in debt. At that time in my life being $10,000 in debt was gigantic. I couldn’t even imagine it.

  “We made it to California and our friends gave us enough money to get back home.

  “So then I said, ‘Okay, how are we going to get out of debt?’

  “Sandy said, ‘Well, you’re fucking guys all the time anyway, why don’t you go work in a whorehouse?’

  “I thought that being a whore held a certain nobility,” Laura acknowledges, “and I thought I just had to pay back that $10,000. I knew Sandy could never pay it back, so that was my goal.

  “So Sandy set up an appointment for me at a whorehouse in New York City that he went to all the time—I found out later—and he took m
e there and dropped me off. They were waiting for me, they liked the way I looked and gave me a job right away.

  “I mean, I was already having great sex with lots of guys. The idea of charging for sex seemed completely absurd, and when I was in the whorehouse, most of the men, I made them make me have an orgasm, ha, ha, ha.

  “I was like, ‘Wait, wait, I’m not done. Let’s keep going….’”

  Most hookers don’t have orgasms with their clients. Some occasionally do. I’ve spoken to many hookers and the truth is that most get as emotionally involved in the fuck as a mechanic does driving home lug nuts with his Snap-On pneumatic impact wrench. It’s just a job, man.

  Many fake it, and if they’re good whores, the kind that care about their industry’s reputation for quality and service, they fake it with every client because that’s what most guys’ egos need. It’s part of the show.

  It’s hard to tell the real from the fake. The CIA, Mossad and the KGB, with all their resources and black-ops, working for decades in conjunction with the finest doctors in the world, some of them ex-Nazis who were working on the problem for Hitler, have been unsuccessful in ferreting out a litmus test for fake orgasms, so don’t feel bad if you can’t tell.

  There are some, like Laura’s—so blinding, so huge, so spastic—they must be authentic. I know her orgasm is real.

  The knock again, this time louder. I hold her tight so she can’t move. The stronger I hold her the less resistance she offers. Until she turns her head toward me and says, “I’m sorry I have to leave. I have a regular waiting for me.”

  I watch Laura put on her pink negligee and fix the ribbons in her hair. “I’ll be right back,” she says, “Let me get him settled.”

  I stand at the door with it cracked open and hear her down the hall say, “Hello Rob” to her waiting customer. I am wounded. Then it all comes into perspective. I just had this blinding sexual and emotional experience with a hooker but the bottom line is that she’s a hooker and it is her job to give me a blinding sexual experience so I must leave my emotions in the room and go back to my life.

  I get dressed. She returns and I give her a $50 tip, twice what’s expected and say thanks. She doesn’t look at the money, kisses my cheek, then slowly and tenderly my lips, and then she disappears.

  I procrastinate. I don’t want to leave our scent. I can still taste her, sweet with an accent of umami. I’d never tasted a sweet and umami pussy before. Umami means savory. It’s the full-flavor taste we get from things like Parmesan cheese, mushrooms and red wine. It’s the fifth basic taste, added by the Japanese about fifty years ago to the other four: sweet, sour, salty and bitter. It’s said the reason Coca Cola and ketchup are universally loved is that they contain all five flavors.

  I like women who taste sweet. Some are salty, which I don’t prefer, and some are sour or bitter, which I don’t like. There are variations in receptors and preferences. A woman I taste as sweet might be bitter to another man. Or maybe he likes one I taste as bitter.

  Laura has the bottom note I love in patchouli or “Opium” perfume. She’s flowers with gravitas. She has meaning. She’s important.

  “I loved sex and was willing to fuck every man that chose me,” Laura remembers about when she first met Jeffrey. “But sometimes I’d get numb by a stream of men coming to the whorehouse pretending to be men. They had hard cocks and flaccid attitudes. No matter how old they were, some seemed like self-conscious boys with an adolescent desperation to find a moment of stolen ecstasy.

  “Some of the men who frequented the whorehouse were really attractive. Some weren’t. A few were gorgeous. Some were assholes, some were sweethearts. Lots of guys were just horny guys who had wives who weren’t giving them what they needed. Some guys just need extra sex. Some had quirky kinks they couldn’t do with their wives or girlfriends. Some guys just couldn’t find women to fuck them and so they paid us. Some were away on business and needed to get rid of their stress. Some who came in were neurotic, or desperate or something. Some of the guys who came in were damaged goods in some way. There was some of everything. It was like Russian sexual roulette. You never knew who would choose you.

  “Then Jeffrey came in,” Laura recalls. “He had an open smile and didn’t wear a mask. He was a real man. He was different. He was totally at ease. We had sex right away.

  “When I met Jeffrey I had just realized what I wanted my life to be: I wanted to experience ultimate pleasure and joy, that really the whole pursuit in life—the ultimate focus and movement in life—was about joy and bliss. So I went directly from understanding this to meeting Jeffrey.

  “Jeffrey was a great fuck,” Laura continues, “Oh God could Jeffrey satisfy me! Yes! OH YES! I felt this man’s passion from both his hands—fucking him was as much as anyone could ask from sex! I didn’t want to loose a single drop of this initial attraction. I am a junky for passion and this man was an opportunity I didn’t want to miss.”

  That afternoon as Sherry and I and our dogs drove to my cabin in the country for the weekend, I knew I had to break up with her.

  That night I went through the motions with less energy than usual. I couldn’t get Laura out of my mind. I kept thinking, “She’s a whore, I can’t get involved.” But I was.

  Sherry knew something was up. She asked why I was so quiet. I told her I was tired. Instead of her nagging, bitchy selfishness, she was deferential. I didn’t know how to end it with her but I knew one thing: with hostile bitches you have to get them to leave you.

  If you leave them, they’ll machine gun your life, fuck your reputation, annoy your friends, steal, break things, call you in the middle of the night, and cause endless trouble. They’ll turn you in to the I.R.S.

  But if you can manipulate them to leave you—you’re safe. Their ego will be intact. They won’t have rejection to fuel their anger. They’ll feel sorry for you. They’ll be comfortable with you being the victim. They’ll feel they won. They won’t call the I.R.S.

  All next week in New York City I did whatever Sherry wanted. We listened to her country music every day. I let each snide remark pass unchallenged. I swallowed my words when she served my medium rare steak well done. Whatever ridiculous thing she was offended by I apologized for. Deprived of the combat she so dearly needed she focused on my lack of financial ambition and said, “Jeffrey, this isn’t working anymore. You’re too comfortable with too little. I think I need some space.” I needed a sharper resolution so I begged her not to leave me. I continued being obsequious. The next day she threw me and Necort out.

  5

  My heart gets flushed down the toilet of love

  Early May 1980

  Now that I wasn’t with Sherry anymore I needed a place to live in New York. I hated commuting two hours each way from my cabin.

  A country neighbor and friend, Susan came over to stay with Necort while I looked for a place. He adored her and I’d come home to a clean cabin, a happy dog and lots of delicious food waiting for me. And if either one of us needed sex, neither of us was shy about asking.

  I had about $850 a month to spend and in the spring of 1980 that still got you a decent place, but there were not many vacancies and I was not having any luck.

  Three weeks to the day after I met Laura, with every day a losing battle to not think about her, I was in a cab late one morning on the way to check out an apartment when we passed 54th and Madison. I told the cabby to stop. I had to see her.

  I enter Eureka and ask if Laura is in. Liz is off but Theresa, her assistant, says Laura just went into a session and won’t be available for fifty minutes. She asks if I would like to see another girl. I tell Theresa that I only want to see Laura and only want to talk to her a minute or two. I ask if it’s OK to wait. Theresa smiles, “Sure, go in room five and I’ll send her in as soon as she’s out.”

  I wait. Not scared, not frustrated. Empty of anxiety. There is nothing else I can do. I am as emotional, hot, driven as I have ever been, close to exploding, so I dig down deep into my po
ol of cool. If there ever is a moment outside of the boxing ring to overrule my emotions, this is it. I don’t want to come off as a needy jerk or a desperate lunatic. I find the still place and jump in. I am Billy Jack, Hud and The Outlaw Josey Wales. I feel thinner. I stare in the mirror and instead of the chump I sometimes see, I see a face full of character.

  Forty minutes later, Laura rushes in wearing only a towel. She is stoned. There is just a trace of lipstick left. “I heard you were here. I’ve got to finish up. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere!” She rushes out.

  She looks beautiful, wild. She smells like fucking. I’m so excited, I’m no longer cool. Josey Wales and Billy Jack desert me.

  After what seems like a week, she’s back. Again her pheromones call to me. She smiles with her eyes and her mouth. I keep myself from ripping off her towel.

  “I can’t stop thinking of you,” I blurt.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” she answers, answering my prayers.

  “I’ve got to see you soon,” I say as we fondle each other’s arms.

  She stuns me with, “I need you to fuck me right now.”

  “I don’t have enough money.” I only had about $30 on me. I’d planned to go to my bank just before I checked out the apartment.

  “I’ve got money. I’ll pay,” she says, blowing me away with her urgency.

  She runs out and sixty seconds later she rushes back. “I took my last two tips and gave $35 of it to Theresa for your session. I’m glad you came back. I think about you every day.”

  She rattles off, “I love the way you hold my head when you fuck me. I have to have more of that in my life. I need you to fuck me. Fuck me, please.”

  Her body is wet from the last fuck and her pussy is lubricated with another man’s come and I love it all. We are groping animals acting out preordained genetic code. First me on top, then intoxicating, wet, together, slippery sixty-nine; I taste her previous client. I don’t care. Next, pounding doggie style, then elegant missionary with her long legs wrapped around me. We change positions frequently, flipping through the Kama Sutra.