Laura Meets Jeffrey (4 page)

4

Falling in love in a whorehouse

Ten minutes later

Laura is undressing me in the huge bathroom down the hall. We're smoking her joint. She draws my bubble bath and I get in the oversized claw-foot tub. Instead of washing me from outside the bath, which is customary, she strips and climbs in. Her body is long and lean. Her nipples are big as organ stops, and her ass is round and childlike cute.

I lie back in the tub with her between my legs. All of a sudden her hands are under my bottom pushing me up so my dick is out of the water and in a flash her mouth is on it. This surprises me as the cock-in-mouth stage usually comes later in the session. She starts at the tip to squeegee the bubbles off, quickly making it hard with short sucking bursts.

My God! What a warm mouth.

Laura takes a break and asks, “Oh, what's your name?” It was right there that I felt the first lightning bolt of love. Here was a woman who sucks your dick first and asks your name second.

“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 me 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.