Laura Meets Jeffrey

by Jeffrey Michelson

  The lyrics are even better than the music. I enjoy every chant of “God!,” “Oh my God!,” “Jesus!,” “Jesus Christ,” “Jesus Christ Almighty,” and the odd “Jesus H. Christ!” I never found out what the H stands for. Many times I heard “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” which I believe is an exclamation reserved for Catholics, usually lapsed, usually Irish, almost always women. I’ve also heard people shout—again usually women, and I don’t know why it’s women—“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

  These are power cheers, like shouting “D-Fence,” at a football game. Sometimes they are in smooth, soothing legato and sometimes they stab the air in staccato.

  I never heard “Father, Son and Holy Ghost,” “Holy Moses,” “Mohammed,” or any U.S. President. I don’t know what Unitarian Universalists scream. Maybe it’s “Oh Great Possible Nothingness” or “Holy Question Mark.” Maybe they revert to the standard religious responses listed above. Maybe, as in foxholes, there are no atheists in the middle of an orgasm.

  One of the loudest female fucks I ever met was a hard-bitten card-carrying Madeline Murray O’Hare-following atheist, a rabid placard waving anti-school prayer protester who once screamed, “Dear God help me!” in the middle of a climax. I never called her on it because I saw no erotic upside, but I knew there was at least a moment or two when she slid into agnosticism.

  27

  Olympic pissing at the Hellfire Club

  February 1981

  Laura Erotic Progress Report: She’s gone from normal horny teenage hippie to almost sexless spiritual wife to local bar slut to New York City hooker to adult bookstore anonymous sex to threesomes to orgies. None of these have allowed her to give vent to her new hobby, masochism. I say masochism in retrospect. We never use the word. She says she likes being whipped, likes being my slave and likes taking pain, but we never use any mass marketing, pop culture labels. She keeps asking me to find a place where I can tie her down and other men can whip her.

  Being alien to this scene I ask around, and eventually find a place that offers just the kind of warm fuzzy home-style sordidness she is looking for: The Hellfire Club. It’s in the Meat District and most nights it’s a gay S&M club. My dominatrix friend says she often takes clients there for public humiliation. They paid extra to be beaten, pissed on and abused in front of a crowd. She tells me she was struck by how many people in one room preferred drinking piss to beer.

  The place is named after the famous English sex club of the Victorian Era. The motto of the original Hellfire Club was “Fais ce que tu voudras” (Do what thou wilt), and it was a meeting place for “persons of quality” (largely nobility, royals, politicians and clergy). Members got together to share poetry, blaspheme, drink, fuck and argue politics, philosophy and religion. Lots of prostitutes, male and female, were brought in and passed around. Oddly, the club was said to be the one place in England where men and women had equal status.

  I tell Laura nothing except to take some of our more bizarre sex toys—handcuffs, whips, and chains. During the cab ride down to the triangle at 14th Street and Hudson, I tell Laura that she is to do nothing except follow my orders for the rest of the night. “Yes, Master,” she replies with a twinkle.

  We arrive at the Hellfire Club at about 2:00 a.m. and even in the entry we smell its noxious decadence: sweat, piss, sperm, vaginal fluids, blood, beer, hormones, vomit, leather, and marijuana all elbow each other to deliver their olfactory massage. It is disgusting and compelling. This is the real goods. Vanilla is not a flavor available here. We walk into the packed barroom and the odors intensify. I imagine that a Haz-Mat crew wearing yellow suits and gas masks might raid the club before the vice squad.

  Black leather is everywhere. We migrate to the back room through the smoke and overly loud disco. I hear the sound of lashes, slaps, and screams as bodies come into view. It appears they are equally divided between men and women. Some are tied to the ceiling and some are chained to the walls. This is definitely hardball. Laura draws a few glances but so far we are just day-trippers. So much is going on, little scenes are happening everywhere and I guess here you’re judged only by what you do.

  We walk around. A bar area is surrounded by tables and chairs, some people drinking amid sex acts of all varieties casually sprinkled about. Behind the bar is an open space with torture racks and a brick wall with metal hooks and loops. From all the choices in the erotic scenes around me, one grabs my attention.

  An attractive young white girl, maybe barely twenty, is tied to a hook hanging from the ceiling, with her hands bound over her head and her tippy-toes just reaching the floor. Two black men are whipping her, one whipping her front, one whipping her back. Her body is a Jackson Pollock of welts and bruises. She obviously loves it, shouting, “More! Please!” between strokes. It sucks the eyeballs out of my head and it turns me on. I realize immediately that small visuals, complete with sound, are being processed, printed into little loops to be replayed in my head during later masturbations.

  I pinch Laura’s ass so hard she squirms, turns, kisses me and says, “I want to be used like that.” We walk though an arched doorway into a large area in the back. In the middle is a doctor’s examining table. A slender pale man tied to the table face down is being assfucked savagely by a giant penis connected to a massive hulk of a man. The little guy is screaming so loud I have no idea whether he likes it or is being tortured to death or both.

  Everywhere are roaming voyeurs like us, meandering from one scene to the next. Some people are naked, some clothed, some in between. We peer into cubicles around the perimeter. Each little tableau is more bizarre than the last.

  A girl, not particularly attractive, is on her knees sucking off a man while other people, mostly men, watch.

  A fat man is being whipped by fatter women and begging, in childlike tones for more.

  Two black-leather gay men are whipping the back of a guy who has a cucumber in his asshole.

  A large-assed woman bending over a chair, supported by a beefy man and a beefy woman, is servicing a line of men who plant themselves in her asshole one after another.

  An attractive middle-aged suburban housewife with a hairdo is on her knees sucking off two guys at once while a line of men wait their turn. Some of the men who can’t wait jerk off on her face or bare back, which is already caked with drying sperm.

  I lead Laura back out to the bar area where we encounter a red-haired, proper aristocrat in an evening gown with her hair up in a bun—a woman dressed more for the opera than hell—with two men dressed in black leather, on leashes, like giant house pets, kissing her feet.

  This is Fellini, mixed with DeSade, sprinkled with a dash of Aleister Crowley.

  We walk into a tiny hallway past two toilet stalls with curtains instead of doors and enter a particularly foul-smelling area with a bare toilet in the corner and two bathtubs in the center. A naked man is sitting in the first bathtub jerking off a huge hard-on chanting over and over, “Piss on me boys, piss on me.” He has a huge anchor tattooed on his forearm, the one not jerking off his cock. He’s bald, extremely muscled, has a goatee and looks like a cross between Bluto and Popeye.

  Laura says she has to pee. We go over to the two toilets but they are occupied, each with more than one person. I suggest she use the other bathtub, the one without the man. He might not want girl piss on him.

  Laura hikes up her mini dress and takes off her panties. I hold them. Eyes converge on us. Bodies mill around. Some men touch Laura. She gives me an uneasy sign so I push them back. She backs up and squats over the tub, careful not to touch God-knows-what germs festering on the rim. Just as she starts to piss, two guys at opposite ends of the tub—oblivious to each other—simultaneously dive under her to drink or bathe in her golden shower. Their heads meet with a “CRACKKKK” so loud it cuts through the disco.

  My first instinct is to laugh. Then I notice that while one of them is lapping up her stream, the other is out cold. Before I have to decide whether or not to help him before Laura finishes p
issing, others get him out of the tub. Within a minute he’s standing up by himself moaning, “I missed the piss, I missed the piss.”

  Laura whispers in my ear, “Take me some place and whip me in front of people. Let’s put on a show.”

  We leave the pissorium with our entourage and walk past the white girl suspended from the ceiling still being used by the two black men. One of them has his dick up her ass and the other is holding her legs in the air in front of her. The man fucking her ass holds her with one hand and whips her back with the other. She isn’t pretty but she is so slutty and so extreme I want to fuck her. Even more I want to know her story. But I have other business to attend to.

  I lead Laura to an area off to the side in the barroom and tell her to remove all her clothing except for her garter belt, stockings and high heels. I have her get on her knees on a chair. I do not tie her hands or restrain her. I want no restraint. I want her to accept whatever is about to happen.

  Laura’s body radiates fragrance, not perfume but her own savory scent that fuels my insane erotic desires. I take the short multi-stranded whip out of my pocket and start reddening her ass, making her beg for each new stroke. She pleads, “HARDER BABY, HIT ME HARDER!”

  “Maybe I loved being whipped because I was whipped as a child,” says Laura in reflection. “My father whipped all of us as a punishment. We’d have to pull our pants down and he’d whip us on our asses with a belt. It was definitely a spare the rod, spoil the child upbringing. It was his moral duty. I remember my cousin once said to me, ‘They only whip you because you cry. If you act like you don’t even care, they’ll stop punishing you that way.’ So I tried not to cry when my father whipped me the next time. And it just didn’t work cause it hurt like hell. I never enjoyed it in the slightest bit when my father whipped me. It was horrible and I hated him for it. It was a huge part of my early acid trips, getting through this and forgiving my parents. I had a long conversation with them when I was about eighteen or nineteen years old, saying I really wanted to forgive them for whipping me when I was a kid. And I still have a hard time even saying it. Because to me it was so abusive and so mortifying and so horrible. And I don’t think the two things are related, but I suppose a therapist would say they are.”

  A sizable crowd gathers around us. I move around in front of Laura’s face and say, “I’m going to give a stranger the whip, and look you right in the eyes as you take the pain.”

  “Yes, Master, that’s what I want.”

  “What is it that you truly want?”

  “I want to be used by men,” Laura cries, “I want them to have their way with me. I want to be abused hard by men I never see.”

  It is a variation of the sex rap scenario we painted countless times alone together in our bed with each of us trading lines to flesh out the sordid set piece. As we talk, the crowd gets edgy for action. I feel the rise in expectations. So this is why rock groups always came out on stage late.

  I hand the whip to the man wearing lots of black leather closest to me. “Hit her,” I say.

  “Oh, I just couldn’t!” he lisps and the crowd laughs. Although he looked the part, once he spoke I understood he was a festive fellow and this was not his sport.

  “I’ll whip her,” comes from a wiry young guy reaching for my whip.

  I tell him to be firm, not brutal, and count only to ten. I move close to her face and watch every detail of her perverse pleasure. The whip comes down hard on her ass as she’s kneeling on the chair. She moans with each lash. “Is this what you desire?” I ask between eight and nine.

  “Yes I need this. I love you, baby, “Laura answers, “You give me what I need.”

  “Tell me what you want now baby, I demand it.”

  “I want to kiss you while men spank me and fuck me and deposit come in me,” Laura tells me, “then I want you to fuck me up the ass in front of everyone.”

  “Who wants to fuck her?” I shout out to the crowd, a pirate captain playing social director with his men after a particularly successful pillage.

  I know I can’t possibly provide her with enough sex to satisfy her. I want to see how much it takes to make her say, “Enough.”

  A small man dressed in all black leather, much older than we were, one of the first to whip Laura and one of only two I had to warn to back off a bit, compliments me on owning a Unicorn.

  “A what?”

  “A Unicorn,” he repeats. “You must be new to the scene. Gorgeous female slaves are so rare, we call them Unicorns.”

  “I was treated like royalty at Hellfire Club,” Laura brags, “I was the Slave Queen. The Slut Queen. I used to always love going there. I loved all the different contraptions and being able to be whipped and put on a pummel horse; I loved getting pummeled on the pummel horse. I was able to lean over that and somebody kind of hold me while I was getting fucked in the pussy and in the ass—one after another! I never got gangbanged before I met Jeffrey, but it was the perfect thing for a sensation junkie like me. I got exactly what I wanted, non-stop gangbang while being whipped by a gang of strange men. I was living my fantasy and it felt better in reality than even in my imagination so I always wanted more.”

  “Line up behind her and get your meat ready,” I order. I take a fistful of condoms out of my pocket and hand them out. (This was when prophylactics were not ubiquitous at orgies, or even at whorehouses, but this wasn’t the orgy crowd, a friend or a middle class trick. This was an unknown demographic and I wanted to be safe.)

  The pushing and shoving grows violent. A punch is thrown. Soon the natural pecking order sorts itself out. The line is about fifteen men long and curls around so the end of the line has a view of the action in front. “Only her pussy! Only her pussy! No ass fucking and that’s an order!” I say in my most brutal basso.

  Some men are rough, some gentle; some come quickly, some come too quickly, some take five or ten minutes, some eat her pussy from behind for a minute before fucking her. Some come loudly, some silently. One spanks her while he fucks her. Some come inside her in their rubbers, some pull out, rip their condoms off and jerk off on her ass. Two can’t get it up and are shoved aside by the next in line. While waiting, some men stroke her and play with her nipples.

  “That was one of my favorite nights at the Hellfire Club,” Laura remembers. “All my fantasies had to do with multiple men so somebody was whipping me and somebody else was playing with my nipples. I was just in this mind-thing where I was just fucking ecstatic!!!

  “Some of the men who were whipping me were really into it just the way I like it and had just the right pace going. You know, because if you whip too fast, it’s not enough—and I had to be able to savor the feeling of the whip!

  “For me it was the smack of the whip and then savoring the pain,” Laura explains, “first the whip, and then the pain. And they were whipping me exactly right.”

  Laura comes with nearly every one of them who fucks her long enough, moaning with each new load until her orgasms blur into one ecstatic cry.

  I call for a break after a dozen men. The line is still long with many having gone back for a second turn. I walk around behind her just to see the come drip down her thighs, framed by an ass as red as any fraternity pledge’s bottom on hell night. I grab a mass of come with my fingers and fling it onto the floor. I smear what’s left on my hand on her ass and legs, spank her, then let the revelry continue.

  I ask her after each man if she wants more and she says yes. Her eyes get drunker with each fuck. She whimpers and begs for more as soon as each cock pulls out. During the middle of some fucks, she shakes as if hit by an electric shock.

  Laura never says “enough.” She doesn’t come anymore, but there is no way she is going to say “no mas!” After two-dozen fucks (I’ve run out of condoms), Laura is physically exhausted and I tell the line the game is over. Laura comes back to life and screams, “Fuck me in the ass, Master! Please fuck me in the ass.”

  Her beautiful ass is as hot as a heating pad.

>   I take off my pants. I’m not wearing underwear. I take my already hard dick, and rub it on her hot come-soaked butt. I work it into her bum using the ejaculate butter as lubricant. She is awash in it. It runs down her legs. I lean against her and move in and out and feel the fluid; some just given to her is warm at the top of her thighs and some, received earlier, is cold, all the way down to her ankles.

  Someone puts a real popper (I could tell it was amyl nitrate not butyl nitrate) right under my nose, which helps spark my climax and makes the explosion more intense.

  “Of course, Jeffrey would always come in for the fuck,” Laura laughs, “because I loved fucking him. That was another one of my favorite fantasies that we acted out—Jeffrey would let everyone get me all turned on—and then he would come in and insert himself inside my ass. Yeah, insert himself right into the picture, ha, ha, ha!”

  We get dressed and we go home. We take a long shower together, fumigate, decontaminate, do more coke, and talk about the experience and fall asleep without realizing it.

  I wake up the next day feeling her heating pad ass. I fuck her without her ever stirring or waking up. Her nose is filled with coke and she makes little snores the entire time so I know she is not dead.

  28

  The Norman Mailer/José Torres Saturday Morning Boxing Club

  and my war with Ryan O’Neal

  Other than fucking, my other great physical passion was boxing. From 1976 to 1984, I was part of a group that boxed about twenty-five fall, winter and spring Saturday mornings a year at the Gramercy Gym on 14th Street. The regulars were me, former Light Heavyweight Champion of the World Jose´ Torres, Norman Mailer, Norman’s son Michael, and Norman’s nephew Peter Alson.

  We were joined by a revolving group of artists, writers, actors, lawyers, TV directors, college students, stockbrokers and even a Kennedy for a while. Most had boxed before. Some came fresh to learn. We all wanted something more exciting than tennis.