The Happy Hooker: My Own Story

by Xaviera Hollander

  Marco Polo is suddenly eating a cock, which, so far as he knows, I have just grown.

  Then I step slowly out of the scene and release his hands and the bandages to give him enough room to jerk off, which he does while indulging in his never-to-be-acknowledged homosexual leanings.

  Before I remove the blindfold, Jonny is paid and sent away. Then I release Marco Polo from his bonds, and he is so delighted he wants to arrange another identical session.

  But I had to turn him down. His scene is too much of a hassle for the money, because I have to turn off my phones and neglect everyone else. With that kind of loss of business, he could be profitable only if he paid me $1,000.

  Clothes make the man, and also the freak scene.

  I have an entire wardrobe for transvestites, including special nighties, lace dresses, garterbelts, stockings, big-sized padded bras and girdles, gloves, and oversized women’s high heels.

  At the time I was going seriously into the freak trade, I went to a small shop on Lexington Avenue to buy the appropriate clothes.

  Being relatively new to the scene, I needed a little guidance, so I walked over to the faggy-looking young salesman. “Can I help you?” he asked, and all of a sudden I could see those eyes.

  “Yes, you can help me,” I replied. “You see, I need a wardrobe for freaking people out, and you look like you know what it’s all about to me.”

  At first his mouth fell open, but then he smiled. “Well, dear, now that you put it that way, let me suggest to you these divine garterbelts, these darling black crotchless panties,” he lisped effeminately, “and how about something in a fishnet stocking?” The sales assistant also recommended a few nice feminine garments in case one of my slaves was in the right mood to wear them.

  The first night I had the new collection, I had a slave customer who was so thrilled I could dress him in such heavenly clothes he almost came by looking at them.

  Snapping my fingers and slapping my hands together like a bossy mother teaching her school-age son to dress, I ordered him into them. But he was so enchanted being in the new bra and panties that he climaxed before he got the nightdress on.

  This slave doesn’t take more than half an hour usually, but at least I have to work on him. “Nut,” I told him, “if that’s how you felt, you could have come in your own underpants and saved the fee.” To make sure he got something more for his money, I gave him a friendly spanking as a dessert.

  Freaks will perform the most incredible kind of emotional and physical acts in their pursuit of gratification, but basically they never fuck. They come by masturbating or having it done to them, or with a dildo in their anus, or, like the one I just mentioned, with no help at all.

  One exception to this characteristic is one of my sweetest and most regular slaves, a closet gigolo named Tame Timmy.

  Tame Timmy loves to fuck, as long as he is in bondage – and I must say that he does it well. I guess he would have to, making, as he does, a career out of marrying much older women who happen to be wealthy.

  Tame Timmy is twenty-nine, always suntanned, with a really lovely face and a darling disposition.

  His routine had been to come to my house, but lately, since he divorced his last wife, he implored me to came over to his house and freak him out.

  “Okay, Timmy, don’t you worry, I’ll come over as soon as I can get away,” I assured him. Fortunately, it was a Saturday night and quiet at my house.

  It was around eight o’clock when I got there, and already dark, and he was in a really freaky mood. He wanted me to dress him in women’s clothes, tie him tightly down to the bed, switch off all the lights, and leave him alone in the gloom.

  I left the front door ajar while I went home, watched a movie on TV, and had something to eat. It was dusk when I left him three hours before, but when I returned the apartment was in total darkness, and the atmosphere was kind of spooky. The silence was eerie, because I knew that somewhere in a back bedroom lay my living slave.

  I walked into the bedroom and switched on the lights and found Tame Timmy in almost exactly the same position as I had left him. There was a sad expression in his eyes, and an erection in his penis. I released the bonds and gave him his freedom, but only temporarily. I dressed him up again in a different outfit and, with him back in bondage, I raped him strong and forcefully, meanwhile slapping my beautiful helpless, tied-down slave in the face. At the same time, I fed him an entire box of amyl nitrates, to get him good and stoned.

  He has since made another home appointment to coincide with the television screening of a Boris Karloff horror movie, and I had to bind him up in an excruciating position, like a giant pretzel, close to the set, which is where he spent the next two hours being spooked out of his head.

  Not all S and M’s are harmless or docile, and I heard that when the New York freaks held a convention this year in a Manhattan hotel, two slaves were so savagely beaten during a demonstration by overenthusiastic masters that they had to be hospitalized.

  There are those like the Cucumber Kid who come to my house wanting all kinds of damage done to them.

  This man, who had just been released from the hospital after another girl shoved a cucumber up his ass and split him in a thousand pieces, wants you to impale him on a hatpin, drip hot wax on his balls, or do anything else that will cause him unbearable pain.

  This kind of treatment does more than cause pain, and I refuse to do anything that might cause anyone real damage, although I myself was almost murdered in my own house in a freak scene gone haywire.

  It began innocently enough when a man named Larry Lerner called up late one night with a reference from Madeleine Henry, and he wanted to come by. I honestly didn’t want any more business, because it was three A.M. I had shut up shop and was relaxing over a fruit juice with a girl named Sarah, my roommate and also a working girl. But I had promised Madeleine I would take good care of her customers, and to stick to my word, I let him come up.

  Lerner was skunk drunk when he arrived, and at once I regretted letting him come. If I’d had my radar working properly, I would have realized he was trouble and told him to come back tomorrow. I hate drunks at any time, let alone at three in the morning.

  They are slow in their sexual activity, and altogether they are a pain in the neck. I figured with Lerner normal sex would be impossible, bur I couldn’t quite figure the man’s number. There was something kind of sinister about his eyes. They were alternately harsh and dreamy. As I’ve said, I usually can tell a lot by a man’s eyes, but this night I really got the signals crossed. I decided he was a masochist.

  “Why don’t we do something really weird,” I suggested. “You are going to be my slave, and I’m going to be your master, and I want you to do exactly what I say.”

  “No,” he said, “I’m gonna be the sadist.”

  “Maybe you didn’t understand what I mean,” I said. “I will be the domineering one.”

  In general you don’t try to talk people into freak scenes. You can mention the subject and see their reaction, but with a drunk you’ve got to be careful; because he can react exactly the opposite of what he feels.

  At that point, however, Lerner had become quite passive, so I figured he was going to play my game, although he insisted on Sarah watching, even though he paid up front only for me. In Lerner’s case I had to bend standard procedure, because he was so drunk and erratic, and accept his money beforehand.

  We decided to use the living room and pushed the nearby furniture to one side while he undressed. Then I got out my goodie bag and put him in bondage with rawhide, ties, handcuffs, and everything. I also put him in a blindfold, but I did it all very gently and did not beat him at all.

  We laid him down in the middle of the floor while Sarah sat swiveling herself in the chair teasing him and saying how ridiculous he looked.

  During the fifteen or twenty minutes Lerner showed little life and was altogether a very boring slave, so in order to hurry this thing along I whispered to Sarah I
was going to the kitchen to get some amyl nitrate to freak him out fast.

  And this reckless gesture was the worst thing I could have done, but I was then naive about the lethal combination of alcohol and drugs.

  Immediately after I popped the amyl nitrate under his nose, he stiffened. “What is that you’re giving me?” he choked.

  “I’m just giving you a harmless popper,” I told him, “so don’t worry about it. Inhale, inhale.”

  But Lerner was momentarily panicked. “Everything has gone completely black,” he bellowed; “get me out of here.”

  “It can’t last more than thirty seconds,” I assured him, but he was impossible to placate. So Sarah and I spent the next ten minutes removing the blindfold and the bonds, by which time we supposed he had calmed down and was over his experience.

  But we couldn’t have been more wrong.

  As he reached toward me on the pretext of getting a cigarette from the coffee table, I saw the sadistic look in his eyes too late. Before I could jump out of the way, his huge hamfist had landed me a vicious blow to the jaw and sent me reeling.

  The madman pounced on me, grabbed my long hair, and started hammering violently at the back of my neck, my chest, and my groin. He had gone stark mad, berserk.

  Sarah was screaming and made a few attempts to pull him off me, but he sent her running with a karate blow to the head. She vanished, and I didn’t know where, because I was too busy trying to save my skin.

  The savage beating went on for about fifteen minutes, blood was coming from my nose and lips, and it was a wonder I was not already dead. Any other woman would have crumpled already, but luckily I have a really hard head.

  To show you how hard it is, once I was riding my bicycle along the canal in Holland when the car in front braked suddenly and threw me forward onto its roof, then down to the ground. When I stood up and felt my head, it was a little bit sore, but no bruises. There was a big, deep hole in the car.

  After what seemed an eternity, the telephone mercifully rang, and I grabbed it, and Sarah was at the other end saying, “Hang in there, Xaviera, I’m coming up with the police.” This to me was the worst she could do, because you don’t call the police up to a whorehouse! But on the other hand, to just let me get killed was no good, either.

  At that point Lerner said: “I’m going to kill you.” And with murder in his eyes he picked up the heavy wooden coffee table with the big brass feet and had it held over my head.

  Just then the doorbell rang, and Lerner dropped the table and suddenly calmed down. But he still had hold of what was left of my hair and was still threatening to kill me, although he was rational enough to try to put on his underpants with the other hand.

  I seized the opportunity to struggle out of his grasp, threw the door open, and was never so relieved to see a policeman in my life.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” the two fresh-faced young Irish cops asked. As if they couldn’t see for themselves! My eyes were as big as artichokes, my nose was bleeding like a tap, and my mouth was three times its normal size. I looked like I’d gone five rounds with Sonny Liston.

  “Oh, nothing much, officers,” I said. “Just a little family squabble. You know, my boyfriend here had a little too much to drink and got a bit frisky.”

  If that looked like a family squabble, we must have looked like the Munster family, because sitting on the floor in full view was my goodie bag with the whips, manacles, and handcuffs all around.

  I tried to bend over to pick them up, but the pain in my body made it impossible. Sarah could see what I was trying to do, so she scooped up the stuff and put it in a closet.

  “Do you want to press charges, then?” the cops asked.

  How could I press charges? I could be hung by the heels from the Empire State Building and not be able to press charges in the business I’m in.

  “No, thank you, gentlemen, but if I could ask you to escort him off the premises, I would be very grateful.”

  When the police left and the shock wore off, I really started to feel sorry for myself. My hair was falling out in big handfuls, and it almost filled the wastepaper basket. A tooth was chipped, the guy had banged me black and blue in my vagina, and my stomach felt like I just gave birth to a dinosaur.

  So far I had kept my cool, but by now I was at breaking point, and I needed a strong shoulder, so I called the contact between me and my boyfriend. Half an hour later Larry came over and took me to the emergency room at the hospital on Seventy-second and York.

  And what I went through there, it was a toss-up whether I might have been better just staying at hone. We sat there waiting for half an hour before anybody even bothered to see what was wrong, and then someone came along and asked a whole lot of questions, name, address, education, and whether I had ever been there before, and if so, did I pay my bill.

  After about another hour a doctor came by and knocked me on my knee, knocked me on my head, knocked me on my nose, and said: “X rays.”

  I was directed into a room where this little Spanish X-ray technician with a black moustache told me to get into a paper robe that opens down the front, and climb onto the table. He watched me undress, and he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw how badly I was beaten.

  “My God, whatever happened to you?” he said.

  To hell with it, I thought, I might as well tell him the truth in twenty words, no more, and I could use a little sympathy.

  “Ah, you know, a little freak scene. I like to turn people into slaves, but tonight the slave turned on the master.”

  But sympathy is not what I got. As I glanced out of the corner of my swollen eye, I could see there was a big hard-on in his pants. “Before we start,” he said with a slimy smile, “how about a blow-job?”

  With all I’d gone through, all I needed was a horny Puerto Rican X-ray technician at five in the morning! “Baby, get your work done, one animal a night is enough.”

  “If you give me a blow-job I’ll give you the X rays free; otherwise it will cost you $100 or $150,” he persisted.

  “Forget about it, Charley, quit, split, get on with your work and send me the bill.”

  The technician was crushed and disappointed, but not completely discouraged. “All right,” he said. “But can you let me have your card?”

  13. AN ADULT TALE; OR: FANTASY AND ME

  “I am a four-times married contessa, simply rolling in money left me by my three husbands who have all mysteriously died,” I tell the man sitting fully dressed in my living room.

  “My fourth husband is ailing and may not survive the night…”

  “Yes, yes, go on, go on,” he urges impatiently in his thin, piping voice. “What happened to these men? Tell me!”

  “The first, poor man, drowned right before my eyes in the sea at Deauville. I, uh, sort of held his head under water.

  “The second, rest his soul, died an agonizing death when his bedroom caught fire and I could not get the door open to let him out.”

  “The third?” he prods.

  “He fell over a mountain in Switzerland. I was standing right behind him and saw it happen…”

  While I am spinning the story, the man sits there spellbound. His bony hand, shaking from the first states of Parkinson’s disease, goes to his pocket and starts tampering with his cock.

  H. Christian Andersen, as he likes to be called, is the scion of one of America’s wealthiest shipping families. He is also one of the biggest-spending weirdos I have ever met.

  Weirdos – or sickies – are freaks who prefer much more exotic and ingenious humiliation than the usual masochist. They will pay any amount; sometimes, the more you charge, the happier they are; and some of their scenes would bend your brain.

  H. Christian Andersen doesn’t want sex, and he doesn’t want to know you’re a call girl. He wants to believe you’re a rich but chiseling woman. In other words, he comes to a brothel for a different kind of tail – a fantasy tale. An imaginative storyteller, which I can claim to be, can ea
rn a really fat fee from this sickie by spinning out the episodes over a series of days.

  “What about the present husband?” Andersen demands to know. “What’s bothering him?”

  “Poor man,” I say, “the doctor thinks he ate poisoned caviar. He is in terrible agony and may not last the night, but I’ll let you know what happened when you come back tomorrow.”

  He is happy to treat me generously for that little half-hour story, makes his appointment for the following day, and leaves.

  I always try my best to give H. Christian Andersen original fairy tales for his money, but if I am distracted and can’t invent one sufficiently intriguing, he will sometimes settle for his old favorite, which is my version of “The Emperor’s New Clothes.”

  In this story I play the role of the vendeuse at Dior’s New York salon and Andersen takes the part of Mrs. Rich-bitch ordering her new fall wardrobe.

  On the first day we discuss fabrics and inevitably decide the entire collection will be done in crushed velvet – he adores crushed velvet – and satin. That being established, he pays far more than the standard fees for the consultation, out of which I have to buy the fabrics also. Before he comes back the next afternoon, I send out for ten dollars’ worth of the two fabrics, which he sits and fondles while we plan how we’ll make them up.

  “Would you prefer to send the fabrics to Paris to be made by Cardin or Dior, or shall we summon one of them here?” I ask my client. Dior is several years dead, but he doesn’t know that.

  “Bring me Dior,” he commands.

  “These people don’t come cheap,” I warn him. “Dior will want at least $700 to cross the Atlantic.”

  “Hang the expense, bring the man here,” he repeats, and produces his wallet.

  Next day when he comes around to meet with Dior I have a very sad story to tell him. Dior’s plane has been grounded on the polar route in Anchorage, Alaska. “He is stranded in a snowstorm; and the cables, limousines, and hotel bills are mounting,” I have to inform him. Naturally, he covers the cost of all that.