The Happy Hooker: My Own Story

by Xaviera Hollander

  Inside their house, where the atmosphere reeked of money, and success oozed out of the woodwork, we had a brief guided tour before the raven-haired woman, dressed in an exquisite turquoise silk house gown, led us upstairs.

  Adjoining the bedroom was a bathroom where a Jacuzzi whirlpool bath was all ready. Without any prompting from the couple, Laura started to remove her clothes, and asked me to take mine off. The idea was for her and me to get into a swing. We started caressing each other as we climbed into the whirling tub. Laura sat on the side of the bath, and I knelt down doggie fashion and started kissing her all the way down her sinuous brown body to her familiar purple pussy with the springy hair.

  All the time I was doing this the water was gushing against my clitoris from behind, and we were both getting very excited. The couple stood near the door, and the actress started stroking her own body through the soft silk of her gown, while her husband was saying, “Wow, give it to her, baby.”

  Laura too was gurgling with pleasure, and soon she started to squeal as she climaxed and slid down into the tub.

  This turned the actress on like a 100-watt lightbulb, and she wanted her own action. “Let’s go inside and get down to some basics,” she said impatiently. So we climbed out of the tub, toweled off, and adjourned to the bedroom for the heavy freak scene.

  Laura, who knew the script well from regularly doing it, shoved the beautiful actress roughly down onto the bed and started undressing her. Without any resistance she removed her gown, panties, and bra, and I must say, for a forty-year-old woman who was the mother of a child, she had a dynamite body – slender and delicate, with big, strong tits and milk white skin.

  Laura grabbed the actress’s wrists and bound them with her gown sash and tied them to the top of the bed, while I pulled her legs apart and tied each ankle to the other end, using her husband’s expensive neckties.

  Then I was handed a huge double dildo – a rubber penis with identical heads on each end – and I was to abuse this beautiful creature with it. After I greased it up with Vaseline I inserted one end into her vagina and the other into her rectum, and not very gently, either. The treatment this woman wanted was rough and painful.

  While I manipulated this monster, Laura slapped her around the face and breasts as she writhed with pleasure, making low moaning sounds.

  During all this her husband stood leaning against a bureau calmly watching, popping amyl nitrates for himself and feeding her cocaine, which whacked her out of her head and sent her almost berserk.

  Her husband was not allowed to touch the hired girls, although I have since found out he secretly auditions the very young ones when he goes on his talent-scouting sorties to brothels.

  “Give it to her with the vibrators now, Xaviera,” Laura, the director, said, so I withdrew the double dildo and replaced it with two little rapidly whirring mechanical devices.

  Her passion rose to a crescendo, and her husband could tell the climax was not far off, and in their twisted thinking the whole scene is justified as love if he completes it with her. He dropped his robe, climbed onto her convulsing body, and banged away for minutes until she climaxed, hysterically shrieking, “My God, my God, my God.”

  It’s sick and it’s pathetic. Here’s this gorgeous-looking woman who should be in a sensitive, gentle love scene with someone tenderly kissing her all over, and instead she is hooked on this hideous depravity.

  Furthermore, she is torn between her heterosexual duty to her husband and her increasing need for female domination, even though she is not yet a lesbian.

  The couple paid me a substantial amount for my part, but really it was money I could live without, so I told Laura to forget about inviting me again.

  But the scene left a lingering impression on me, and I figured maybe the actress needed the debasing to balance the heavy adulation she gets from her theater audiences and movie fans.

  Who knows? All I know is she’s lucky she earns so much, because she spends big money for the freak scenes. Laura alone is paid $1,000 to stop by five times a week and give a convincing performance.

  German George is another pathetic case who needs to be cruelly degraded before he can get his rocks off. He is a wealthy forty-five-year-old businessman who got his first taste of sex under the most extreme kind of conditions as a teen-age Jewish prisoner in a German concentration camp.

  A tough woman guard, naked under a raincoat, ordered him behind the lavatories one night and forced him to perform cunnilingus.

  To this day German George remembers vividly the fear mixed with reluctant excitement that he felt. And he has failed to overcome the trauma to the extent that he cannot have sex without re-creating the sights, sounds, and smells of that carnal moment.

  I came in contact with German George when he called the house where I worked before I became a madam, requesting a girl who spoke fluent German, was reasonably strongly built, and could freak a man out. The madam assured him I was tailor-made for the part, and sent me to his apartment in a luxury high-rise building in the East Fifties.

  German George, after greeting me politely at the door, wanted to get right down to brass tacks, and the first thing he did was lead me to a locked hall closet.

  The slight, pale man fumbled with the locks, and from the way he acted, I thought he must be hiding the crown jewels. But as he pulled open the door with a grand gesture, I saw that the closet contained nothing else but six or seven original SS raincoats – and the smell of perishing rubber was so thick inside you could cut it with a knife.

  This man wanted me to undress and put the raincoat on over my naked body and carry out a mock SS raid and a beating.

  “Don’t forget to put on the belt,” he reminded me as he attached a swastika to the arm and handed me a toy gun.

  The scene was to proceed with me going out of the bedroom while he arranged himself, naked, on the bed with his head toward the closed door.

  Outside the door I had to bang with my fists, boom, boom, boom, and roar out in German: “Gestapo here! Open the door immediately!”

  But there is no reply. So I kick the door open and burst in, to find him lying there with his penis in his hand. “Herr Cohen,” I demand in a menacing voice.

  “No, no, I’m Mr. Smith,” he says meekly, pretending to tremble.

  “Don’t lie to me, you’re a Jew – Verdammte Jude, schweinhund.” Bam, bam, I slam him on the face.

  Little German George quivers all over, gets an erection, and is very excited. He starts waffling about the “bloody Jews” and how he hopes every last one of them gets what he deserves.

  “Shut up, Jew,” I hiss, and to assure that he obeys, I sit on his face and force him to eat me. Then I get mad because he does it wrong, and take off my belt and spank him up until he is almost about to climax, but just then he calls a halt to activity.

  “Let’s stop and do it all again,” he says. So we repeat the scene once again, and the third time, while I spank him hard, German George jerks off.

  The poor man is happy and pleased to pay me, but this kind of thing also makes me sad, because I’m Jewish, too, and even though I was only a baby during World War II, I hate to be confronted with things like this.

  Still another freak who got his hang-up in a war camp is the rabbi who can make it only with non-Jewish girls, and only after they paint him all over with swastikas.

  Just as freaks each have their favorite scene, so they have their favorite atmosphere and conditions. For instance, full moons and gloomy or stormy weather is very big with the average freak. I often think they are as predictable as the little blue boy in those miniature European weather vanes. When the weather is lousy – out they come.

  Perhaps people who dig suffering at any time consider it an added bonus when the weather is mean to them, too. Freaks are also very intrigued by umbrellas, which represent to them a potential weapon of chastisement.

  Umbrellas are so important to many freaks that the biggest S-and-M supply store in Manhattan is a West Side u
mbrella shop where I purchased the contents of my “goodie bag.”

  Every good master needs at the very minimum a good set of manacles, whips, rawhides, handcuffs, chains, paddles, and a dildo. Those who specialize exclusively in the scene have much more variety and perhaps more expensive, subtler instruments. I have one lovely slave who combs Europe searching for medieval leg irons and handcuffs that don’t leave any marks, and he always brings his own bondage accessories for his freak scenes.

  Incidentally, this man recently visited my fellow countrywoman – a madam who ran a famous “torture house” in New Jersey until she was raided, and is now experimenting in Europe with a brand-new treat for masochists called “cell isolation.” In her house in The Hague, this woman has had a special cell built in which she locks her customers after she has clapped them in irons. Sometimes she strings their hands to the ceiling. I understand she is doing a roaring business.

  A little slave customer of mine named Nicky took me to the umbrella store one gloomy freak day to equip myself for my slave scenes. Jonny Starr, the Negro manager of the store, who has since worked for me as a stud, slave, or master, showed me his collection of whips and paddles, all of which I tested out against my hand or Nicky’s ass. As I was making my choice I happened to glance at the store window, and standing there was a well-dressed man completely mesmerized.

  Even through the glass I could recognize that familiar spaniel look they all have of “Beat me up, hit me, please,” like a faithful dog.

  In order to tease him I gave Nicky another smack on his ass, and the whip made a swishing noise that made this window-shopper get all shook up.

  Then I got the bright idea that if I was investing so much money in the new instruments of bondage and torture, I should assure myself of at least one customer, so I walked outside and stood alongside him pretending to study the umbrella display.

  I happened to be dressed appropriately as a master that day, with black pants, black turtleneck sweater, and my hair in a severe upswept style, and the combination of me and the manacles drove him to speak to me.

  “You handle that whip so beautifully,” he said in Hungarian-accented English. “I bet you could do a lot with it to make people happy.”

  “If you think I could make you happy, please allow me to try,” I answered.

  “That I would just love,” he glowed. “Where can I find you, and when will I come?”

  “Come at six P.M. sharp,” I ordered, because with slaves there is never an approximate time. They are always punctual because of the need to be obedient. I handed him my card, and he nodded and walked away.

  As expected, the window-shopper arrived on the stroke of six, all sad-eyed and full of expectancy. That night I tried out everything in my new goodie bag, which he loved so much he became a regular slave until he moved away from New York a year and a half later.

  A freak, no matter how he was first acquired, usually becomes a faithful one-master slave. I have even kept obscene phone-callers on the line, freaked them out, and turned them into regular and profitable clients.

  My ability to spot a freak is uncanny. I can recognize a freak in any environment, and often before he knows it himself, because I can read eyes the way palmists read hands.

  This happened on the beach in Puerto Rico with a famous New York city disc jockey I’ll call William H. Robinson, who definitely had a masochistic tendency, but had never acknowledged it, probably out of fear that the reality might either disgust or addict him.

  Robinson was wearing dark glasses when we were introduced, and as we stood talking at the water’s edge, I could feel those freaky vibrations, so I asked him to take the shades off.

  “I want to see your eyes, because in the eyes of a human being lies his soul,” I told him.

  He unsuspectingly took the glasses off, and straight away I said, “I bet you’re a masochist.”

  The disc jockey’s reaction was startling. I had really hit a nerve. His whole casual attitude changed, and at once he became afraid of me.

  To win back his confidence I told him the truth about myself, and he was shocked all over again, but it made him confess something he had never told anyone in his life, including, and especially, his nice Jewish wife.

  For years he has had a recurring dream, and he starts the story this way. “As I get off the air, I see myself dialing the telephone number of a woman in black, whose face I can’t see, but she has a mane of black hair.

  “She wants me to come to her at a certain hour, but I never seem able to complete the phone call, because my fingers keep slipping out of the dial.

  “All the while I know she will be furious with me because I am unpunctual, and when I finally reach her house, an hour late, I deserve punishment and humiliation.”

  The woman in black, he continues, orders him to come to her on his knees, but suddenly he is on one of those amusement-park crazy roads where you take two steps back to every step forward.

  Somehow in the illogic of the dream he is in bondage, his knees hurt badly, and when he finally reaches the woman, who is sitting on a tall stool in a room shaped like a bowling alley, she is talking sexy on the phone to other people, but she yells obscenities and laughs and spits at him.

  “On your feet, slave,” she orders, and ties him firmly in bondage and beats him, at which point he wakes up sweating beside his little wife, who accuses him of talking to his mistress in his sleep.

  By now, Robinson told me, he was secretly distressed and getting desperate. Should he go on suffering this masochistic anguish, or would participating in a real scene rid him of the nightmare?

  At this point I looked at my watch and discovered I was late for an appointment myself, so I told him to call me in my hotel room that afternoon and I would try to help him out.

  Robinson and I were staying in the same hotel, and in the middle of the afternoon my phone rang. He wanted to know if I had thought about his problem.

  “Yes, I have,” I said, and started spinning him a long fantasy over the phone of how he would get shipwrecked and rescued by naked islanders, only to discover too late they were cannibals who would cook him and eat him.

  I could tell the story was freaking him out as his heavy breathing came through the phone. “Hang up and came straight to my room,” I ordered him, just like the woman in black.

  He arrived wearing only his bathrobe, and was at such a pitch that all I had to do was touch him lightly with my hand on his thigh, and he climaxed.

  The freak world of make-believe is so delicate and sensitive that the essential mood can be shattered by the least lapse in reality. Therefore, the fantasy you spin, the clothes you wear, and the atmosphere you create are absolutely important.

  Early in my career as a practicing master I welcomed to my house a man who called himself Marco Polo, who was in fact a famous public personage who makes speeches at the Waldorf and has his picture in the Times.

  When this man walked into my living room I was looking very feminine, wearing a diaphanous nightgown, my hair hanging demurely to my shoulders. “You’re not the type of woman I expected to see,” he said, backing off. “You couldn’t freak me out.”

  “Perhaps if you will be patient for a little while I could find you a woman who could freak you out,” I said, and slowly, as he made himself comfortable in the armchair, I faded into the bedroom and came back wearing a black leather outfit, with fishnet stockings, and my hair in a severe pulled-back style.

  The transformation was for him perfect, and immediately he was reassured. For half an hour we sat in the living room discussing what was his hang-up, and our plan to satisfy it. Marco Polo described to me a set of symptoms that were familiar with many successful and powerful men.

  As absolute ruler in his corporation, he manipulates the men beneath him like a puppeteer. However, this daytime domineering makes him feel insecure, and as a balance to reality, he craves being submissive. These powerful men become slaves to release the tension of running other people’s lives.r />
  Having recognized Marco Polo’s preference, I suggested the bedroom, which was prepared with flickering candles and black lights to create a spooky atmosphere, and once inside, his uptight living-room manner disappeared; instead, he became very freaky.

  Marco Polo’s desire is to make you believe he is some kind of docile animal, and he needs first to be talked into a different world – which is the mentally exhausting part of it. It can take more than an hour, gradually and convincingly getting him into his fantasy world while dressing him with wigs, makeup, handcuffs, and leg irons. I then add a blindfold, which is something I invented to increase the thrill of fear and humiliation. To masochists the feeling of being in bondage and blindfolded as well can be compared to the classic double ecstasy.

  While doing all this I talk about the ocean, the huge white-capped waves, the fishermen in their boats, and this beautiful mermaid. At this point my roommate, Mary Jo, assists me to lay him down on the bed with his head facing the wrong end. We bind his legs together in hospital bandages, make him a tail, and tell him he is that mermaid.

  To complete the illusion, we throw a fishnet over him, all the time popping amyl nitrate under his nose, which most freaks love for the aphrodisiac effects.

  As he lies in his aquatic fantasy I take off my clothes and stand with my body above his face and let him start eating me, and then it is time to introduce the mystery guest.

  The mystery guest is Jonny, the umbrella salesman, but Marco Polo must never be allowed to see or hear him, because he doesn’t want to be confronted with his homosexual tendencies.

  Marco Polo, I have recognized, is like many freaks who are respectable businessmen and family men – a latent homosexual who will not admit it to anyone, least of all himself.

  As he lies there eating my pussy, his hands in bondage, with just enough freedom to play with my tits, I signal the black stud, who creeps up behind me and slides his enormous cock in between my legs.