Now standing up on the floor, with her bent over holding her ankles.
Now her legs spread and her hands up against the wall in cop/frisk position.
Back in bed, her on top facing me. Laura is not on her knees but on the soles of her feet, touching me only where the fuck meets, slow milking, sucking me with her pussy.
Now she leans over with her hands on my shoulders so we can kiss. Then rolling over in perfect unison with me on top responding to her barely audible, “harder,” belting into her, jet-propelled bursts, an offensive guard lunging at the snap, harder and harder until we’re crunched up against the headboard and I’m holding her head in my hands, her back curving slightly, and we come in the shuddering frenzy of divine spasm.
Even now, nearly thirty years later, I can still feel my shooting—creamy soft blasts in her belly again and again and again, giant throbs convulsing inside me so many times I fear I might run out of jism and pump blood.
My spasms stop. My dick slithers out and I fall to the bed. We lie there staring into each other’s eyes. No one moves. Then with a knock at the door—reality seeps in through the cracks. My vision expands beyond Laura to include the rest of the world. “I’ll be back,” she purrs.
Five minutes later Laura walks back into the room with determination. Something is wrong. “How much of a tip are you going to owe me?” She demands. “When are you going to pay me back for the session and drop off my tip?”
“What? What?” You could drive a nail into my skull and I wouldn’t blink. “What are you talking about?” I bumble.
She softly repeats her demands—an accounts receivable manager coolly dunning an overdue bill from a good customer.
“I’ll, um, repay you this afternoon and drop off your tip.” I get dressed feeling ashamed of my nakedness. I avoid her eyes and split.
I walk the streets punch drunk. The quizzical mantra of “What?” is the sole noise in my head. Then, finally, “What the fuck is going on? How could I travel through ecstasy to the toilet?”
I felt betrayal, not only by Laura but also by my own self-defenses. How could I have misread her? Was she a conniving hustler the whole time? Was I just another trick? I was so out of balance that if I’d broken out with pimples, boils and festering sores right there on the street it wouldn’t have been a surprise.
Later that afternoon I went back with $85 in an envelope and dropped it off at the receptionist’s desk. I didn’t ask to see Laura.
6
Shake it off. Get back in the game.
Twenty minutes later to three weeks later
I got my car and drove back to my cabin. Sometimes Susan left when I returned and sometimes she stayed. I called and asked her to stay because I did not want to be alone. I got home and I cried in her arms. It was one of the very few times in my life I couldn’t get it up to fuck. She made me herb tea, I took a couple sleeping pills and she rubbed me to sleep. I never heard her leave.
The next morning I recovered enough to want to know what the story was. I called Eureka three times until I got Laura. I had no pride.
“What’s going on? You tell me you miss me and you need me to fuck you right away and you’ll pay for it and then you leave and come back in the room like I’m a regular john. I don’t get it.”
“Look,” she said, “I have a husband and a mortgage and a huge debt to pay back. As long as I’m in debt my focus is to get out of it and I can’t just go off and have a good time. If we’re together again I’m sure it will be magical but I need to get money.”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought something else was going on. I must have misled myself. If you change your mind you can reach me through Response answering service. They’re listed and you know my name.” I said goodbye and hung up.
I felt stupid. I fell for a whore. What an asshole. I told my friends the story, making it funnier each time, purging Laura from my guts with each telling. Self-denigration is the soul of Jewish humor. In a week and a half the incident was dim headlights in my rear view mirror.
“I’m an excitement junky,” Laura explains, “I love extreme orgasms. I love orgasms that never stop. I love being adored beyond limits. I love taking everything to its limits. I couldn’t pass up this experience with Jeffrey—but I had huge financial troubles and I still had to pay back Sandy’s ten thousand dollar gambling debt. I don’t think Jeffrey understood…”
I went about my life. I had fun with Susan and Necort. I got my sex drive back. I hung out with my buddy and long-time occasional fuck, Erika, a foxy, six-foot tall self-styled “Cum Junkie” whose Friday night hobby was to gang-suck entire barrooms of men. I’d watch her get drunk, sit in a men’s room stall and give a rousing suck-off to a quickly moving line of maybe a dozen or more guys. Sometimes she’d get a little too drunk, and I’d walk her home and hold her over her toilet as she vomited a most unique collection of sperm and imported and domestic beers. Knowing what she was about to do in the evening, I’d have sex with her before we left for the bar. Even I had some limits.
Until I could find my own place in New York, I made a deal with a client to pay part of his rent on a slickly furnished expensive flat. Lots of light woods and glass, lots of mirrors, good for both business and for impressing New York pussy. The only problem was it was a no-pets building so I couldn’t take Necort.
A few days later I started having an affair with Becky, an extremely attractive, WASP stock analyst I meet in the elevator. (My rent money was already paying off!) She was a Virginia Tidewater Aristocrat, one of the kinky, trust fund, Protestant old-money rich.
Becky was very tall, nearly as tall as me, and a lot taller than me when she wore high heels, which I encouraged. Some men hate being with taller women. At just under six feet and comfortable with my height, I love when the woman I’m with towers over me. It says, “I’m the guy who caught the big fish.”
She was also slim, a Wharton grad, a middle-level manager at a very big brokerage company, a lady “suit” and my first real adult, with a hairdo, golf clubs, money market fund, a condo in Florida, a refined appreciation of art and theater, a closet full of Perry Ellis and Albert Nippon, a Mercedes, nouvelle-French cooking skills, and to top it off, as many handcuffs as the Sixth Precinct.
She loved smoking pot, being handcuffed to her huge four-poster bed and being fucked while struggling against her bonds. I got the feeling she was consciously slumming with me, which made it sexier for both of us. I was Stanley from Streetcar.
She liked it when I talked like a street punk and acted tough. Sadly, she was also one of those people born without a sense of humor. Worse than not being funny herself, she didn’t get my jokes.
But Becky did have compensations: skin that felt the way expensive wine tastes, a pussy so delicious that it must have taken several generations of refinement to breed, and long, long legs. What a fuckin’ set of wheels!
And could she ever suck dick! She was the girl who literalized the proverbial remark about orally removing the chrome from a ’55 Buick Roadmaster. I made myself think of that every time one of my witty bon mots went flat.
She also did something that I have only heard of once before and that was in the movie Deep Throat. She came when she sucked cock. I don’t mean small mini-swells of pleasure; I mean thrashing, screaming, major-league, exploding climaxes. Quite impressive.
The second time I visited her I tried fucking her ass but it she would have none of that. Until she said, “If you want that you’ll have to take it!” I understood. She wanted fake rape. Not at all my trip, but I’d known other women who loved anal sex but considered it a perversion and needed to be pushed over some psychic wall in order to allay their guilt.
I handcuffed her wrists and ankles to her four-poster and Vaselined the entrance. I readied the target by working in one, then two, then three fingers. I was gentle enough not to hurt her and hard enough for her to feel she was being forced. I slid in slow. Then faster. Then jack hammer. I came in her and she came again
and again.
Then she begged to clean off my dick with her mouth, a request that separated the moderately kinky from the truly perverted. She relished the humiliation and moaned drunkenly as she did the deed. “Got to lick my shit off the dirty Jew’s dick,” she chanted like a hammer-swinging member of a chain gang. It was the only pleasant anti-Semitic experience of my life.
7
Anal sex
Anal sex in all its forms is either the most disgusting thing you can imagine, and the anus is a place used only for elimination and to be avoided for all and any other purposes—or anal sex has a rightful place in the realm of pleasure, is way out there erotically and is a source of prodigious hedonistic euphoria.
I’m in the prodigious hedonistic euphoria club.
Some people, male or female, like the anus touched gently, some like it rough, some not at all. Some like it entered, some like to enter. Some like to lick or suck and some like to be licked and/or sucked. Just choosing one activity doesn’t mean you can’t play another.
On purpose I skipped a lot of anal antics, the ones with just men, all of them that have to do with cucumbers, zucchinis, fists, and anything with batteries or any that can only be done with a forklift.
Like oral sex, anal sex is pure sex, total recreational sex. The only thing it has to do with procreation is avoiding it. Many heterosexuals go through their entire lives without doing it or wanting it or thinking about it, and that’s perfectly all right. For them.
Sodomy is a biblically proscribed act. It’s still illegal—even for husbands and wives—in a dozen states. (Is there a marketing opportunity selling packaged tours to those states to married couples for the purpose of turning their sex into criminal activity they get away with?)
Anal sex is fundamental because, at the risk of committing a tautology, it’s the fundament. (Fundament means “the anus,” as well as “the founding principle,” “the foundation.”) It’s raw, lascivious, carnal, licentious, lewd, coarse, profane, bawdy, provocative, and wanton.
For health reasons I suggest you wash thoroughly, use mouthwash or vodka as an antiseptic, go slow in whatever direction you are heading into or is heading into you and avoid anything that smells bad and is obvious hygienic suicide.
Anal sex is as much about power as it is about sex. All the aphorisms about it show a demarcation of supremacy: “kiss my ass,” “he’s an assfuck,” “he’s an asshole,” “bugger you” (and all its buggerful variations), “I’m not going to bend over and take it up the ass,” “brownnose,” “eat shit,” and “don’t drop the soap.”
The act physically necessitates submission on the part of the female or male bottom. The bottom has to let go and relax, open up and be taken. It’s a power tool trip—and—here’s the closing pitch for you boys—it is very tight, usually much tighter than a pussy and it feels—if not better than a pussy—then at least different enough to deserve its own brand name. It’s a whole other place to explore when you want to go someplace else on the weekend.
Many women don’t like it—that’s a fact. On the other hand, most horny sluts come pre-packaged with anal “interest” bundled on their hard drives, and I have always been attracted to horny sluts.
A few select female gems actually prefer it. They are not only diamonds; they are D-color internally flawless. I have only met a few in my life. The one I remember most, Rochelle, would hustle me through all the preliminaries to get me to her back door as soon as possible. She was a California Jewish Princess, which is either ironic or obvious and I don’t know which.
As far as rimming, licking and sucking assholes: Where else can you go farther if you want to give or get adoration? In the world of wild sex a prude is anyone who never sucked an asshole because that’s the dividing line between aficionado and the truly committed.
Most really slutty females that go crazy on you in bed like to lick your ass. Almost all of them. Like they can’t do enough. They suck your cock, they lick your balls, they make grunting noises and speed things up and lick and touch and kiss everywhere but especially your asshole. It’s the center that the whole thing rotates around.
It’s great as horny foreplay, treading transitions between orgasms, or after fucking as mellow down time.
The most amazing data point about assholes comes from an ex-girlfriend of mine who was Korean. She was taught by her mother that cleaning and then sucking a man’s asshole was the key to having power over him in a society where women had no power. And also by letting him fuck you in the ass or better yet by begging him to fuck you in the ass. I really don’t know whether it was just my girlfriend’s mother or a Korean cultural norm, but I liked that she taught her daughter that anal sex was how to control a man.
After three trips back to Korea and several thousand hours of negotiating with her father and mother she went back to marry some guy her family wanted her to marry to bring their families closer together. She knew the guy and thought he was sexy and didn’t mind the arrangement. She’s probably sucking his asshole as you’re reading this.
A mellow version of anal sex, suited to all ages but fitting in well with senior citizens, is anal massage, preferably while watching a football game but any favorite TV program will do. Have your lover get a warm wet towel and wash your face and hands and package and crack, and then oil your junk and butthole. Weed enhances this by a factor of ten and falling asleep for short naps and waking up to this has a kinship with the euphoric rush of opiates.
Anal sex is a staple of porn films and usually comes at the end just before the cum shot. It’s penultimate—the dirtiest part of a dirty movie before the climax. I always thought there should be T-shirts for men who really like it that say: “I Fast Forward To The Anal.”
8
The return of Laura
A Friday afternoon in June 1980
Exactly three weeks after our last meeting, Laura calls my service and leaves a message asking me to please get in touch with her.
I call back and catch her on her way into a session. She is near to crying. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m sorry about what happened. I need you. Can you please come by after work and meet me?”
“You bet!”
“Can I spend the weekend with you?”
“Yes,” I tell her, “but you buy dinner.”
“You’re on.”
Of all the whorehouses in all the towns in all the world, I walked into hers.
9
Emblematic mojos rising
My mojo was working again! The shock of winning, then losing Laura had knocked me down. Now this extra-innings, sudden-death, come-from-behind score refurbished my pride.
In addition to the normal ups and downs of life, I’ve been the beneficiary of flukes. When I was nineteen, I worked as a pool boy at Sydney Hills Country Club in Newton, Massachusetts. It was the summer of 1966 and most of what was great was English. Nearly all the music I listened to was English except for Elvis, Bobby Vee, Chuck Berry, the Beach Boys, The Beau Brummels, and Gene Pitney. The clothes I wanted were English and the women I wanted were English. I had to get to England. I decided not to go back to the University of Bridgeport for my junior year but to move to London instead.
I worked every day that summer and saved every cent. I bought a round-trip ticket to London and had enough money left over to live there frugally for a year. (This was $1,250, or about £10 or $25 a week—all you needed in those days.).
I packed up my camp trunk, a large duffel bag, plus a large and small suitcase with clothes, books, and my favorite blanket, even my favorite pillow. I said goodbye to my family and girlfriend and boarded the plane one late September night in 1966 at 10:10 p.m.
I was too excited to sleep all night and landed at Heathrow the next morning. I wrestled through customs with my abundance of baggage, cashed about $100 into English pounds and found the London bus. It dropped me off at Victoria Station, where I checked all my stuff in Left Luggage except one small suitcase with a few days’ clothes. I was sw
eaty and beat.
Then I stood in a long line to get a cab. When my cabby pulled up he asked, “Where to Guv’nor?” Only at that moment did it occur to me that I had no idea where I was going.
I left the line and sat on my small suitcase next to the cab queue and thought about his question. Where the fuck was I going? I had no plans. I guess I operated on a need-to-know basis with myself. I was totally astounded at my short-sightedness. I put all that drive and effort into getting to London but I never gave a second thought to what I would do once I got here.
It was a wake-up call. For the first time in my life, I suspected I just might be missing a few socks in my dryer. From then on, I knew I had to pay better attention to what I was doing.
As it happened, everything worked out fine. The only places I knew of were Carnaby Street and Piccadilly Circus so I took a cab to Piccadilly and by the end of the day, I met some English students who put me up, and by the next night I was in their neighbor Emma’s bed. Within a month I had a Triumph motorcycle, a circle of chums, a grant to study journalism at the Regent St. Polytechnic, and a smart, foxy, aristocratic girlfriend, Tisha.
As a coda to this fluke, Tisha and I came back to the U.S. and spent the Summer of Love 1967 working for Norman and Beverly Mailer in Provincetown, Massachusetts. I’d first met Norman the year before when I was a roadie for the rock band Charlie Brown’s Generation, and Charlie, the lead singer, was Beverly’s half-brother. When the band played in Provincetown for the summer, I briefly met Norman and Beverly, who had a house there. Norman might have said three words to me.
I took Tisha to Provincetown because in the summer, P-town is the most beautiful place on earth. We got jobs working in a souvenir shop, but Tisha hated it, so when I heard the Mailers were looking for a housekeeper, Tisha and I knocked on their door. Norman and Beverly liked Tisha, a proper aristocrat, and she went to work for them.
Laura Meets Jeffrey Page 4