Gently I rolled the young man over, straddling his back with my knees on either side and my breasts pressed against him, and nibbled softly from his neck down to his buttocks.
There are certain little nerves in a man or woman’s back, which, if given little chews, send an electric vibration straight to the sexual organ. When I turned my patient back over, he had a beautiful erection. I gave the same kisses to the front of his body, working down from his temple, neck, chest, and around the pubic triangle to his balls. I started kissing them, putting each in my mouth, but not for too long, because some men, especially when they are under thirty, are ticklish and will laugh and lose their erection.
Then I took his penis like it was a delicious ice-cream cone and slid my tongue over the ice cream. Wow! That wigged him out! But I didn’t suck him for long, because I could sense the tension building in his cock, and I knew if I kept it up he would ejaculate, with the most important part of the treatment yet to come.
The first position I chose for lovemaking was spoon fashion – me on my side and him curling around me, and I slipped him into me that way. Then, without letting his penis leave my body, I got on my knees, and we continued doggie style. That way he slipped out a few times, because it is a complicated position for a beginner.
He was enjoying it tremendously, and after thirty minutes was still keeping up, and I was glad the phone hadn’t rung, which it usually does every ten minutes. However, I could tell the finale was near.
In order to let him penetrate deeper and directer for the paradise stroke, I lay over on my back with a little silk pillow under my hips and my ankles over his shoulders, and that way, panting and bathed in perspiration, he climaxed.
“I never knew making love to a woman could be so beautiful,” he said when he was dressed and ready to leave.
“I think you are cured, and I’m glad. However, I was the aggressor today, but from now on it is up to you. Don’t be afraid of women, just try to find the type you like, and act like a man, not like a baby. And good luck.”
STORY TWO: I strike up a conversation with a couple on the beach in Puerto Rico, and a Mrs. Katz starts telling me how nice it is, you know, to have a vacation with her husband while someone stays home in New Jersey and takes care of the kids.
Mrs. Katz is overweight, and, to be honest, quite ugly, and she’s obviously never gone to sophisticated restaurants or the theater because she spent all her life in Cabbageville raising the kids.
But her husband, who is a garment-district executive, sure looks like a bon vivant. I know he is a bon vivant because while she was away buying a diet soda, he put my card in the pocket of his beach jacket and said, “I can’t do anything here, but I’ll call you when I get back to New York.”
So I touch on the subject of love and marriage with Mrs. Katz, and I am sort of doing a kind of little interview with her.
“Mrs. Katz, if your husband needed a harmless little bit of variety once in a while and if you had the choice, would you prefer he was unfaithful with a call girl and paid her $50 or $100 and came home happy just an hour late once or twice a month? Or would you prefer he found a mistress, set her up in an expensive apartment, perhaps bought her a mink coat, even though he has never bought you one, and, instead of taking you to Jamaica or Puerto Rico, he took her? And maybe, on top of all that, one day he fell in love with her and abandoned you and the kids?”
Now, I don’t look like a hooker, I think. I am as brown as a little peanut, and my hair is streaked blond by the sun and combed neatly to my shoulders, and I look more like a Nordic-type family girl.
“He’s better off with a prostitute,” Mrs. Katz said. So I smile, and she looks at me, and I think she guesses.
STORY THREE: Robert is a handsome, rich, and very successful twenty-eight-year-old investment banker who recently married a girl he had been dating for six months. He loved her very much and really treated her like a queen.
But after only three weeks of marriage her whole family started moving in on his money. Why don’t you buy her these stocks? Why don’t you set up this fund? Why don’t you buy her that house?
And although he really adored her, he realized she loved only his money, and he walked out.
Robert could not afford to be seen dating other girls around town, or his wife’s grasping family would really sock it to him financially, so he came to my house.
“I’m not the type to be hustled for my money,” he said the first night. However, he did not quibble about the staggering tab for the several girls he had, and I am sure had I demanded it, he would have paid more. But I am not the type to put my hands around a man’s wallet and squeeze. Besides, he was so groovy that even if he were broke I would have let him go for free. He was happy to pay for his pleasure. “I would much rather spend my money on a bunch of prostitutes who are more honest than my wife,” he said.
So a contemporary brothel must be many things to many people; and for many reasons.
It is obvious what it is to most! A pay-for-play parlor, but believe it or not, some even use my house not to get laid!
Still others come because a discreet prostitute is the only person to whom they dare expose the sexual hang-ups they conceal from their wives and girl friends to avoid creating a scandal.
A statistic that surprises most people is the percentage of eligible bachelors who patronize my house, when, in this day of sexual liberation, there is so much free stuff around.
The fact that the single man turns up mostly after eleven P.M. is testimony in itself as to why he came.
He has taken a girl on a date, wined and dined her, enjoyed her company, been turned on, made the eternal overture, and she has responded with some unflattering excuse such as: “I have to go home and wash my hair.”
His ardor for her dimmed, but his appetite not sated, he takes out his black book and calls his favorite madam, and for less money than the cost of his evening out in most cases, can discharge his desires without any hassle.
Married men, who make up the largest slice of brothel business, come for a variety of reasons. Geographically they may be out-of-town businessmen, or perhaps recently separated or divorced and not yet fixed up with a new girl friend. Others are wanting the exotic and unusual that they don’t see at home and are fed up with DIB (dead-in-bed) wives who just lie there like a starfish.
Whatever it is a man is looking for, a high-class house should provide it.
What happens when a man walks through a brothel door? Let me take you on a guided tour of my house, explain a few trade secrets, explode a few old myths, and try to establish the fact that a modern house no longer deserves the title “house of ill fame” or “ill repute,” but “house of pleasure.”
On any weekday night there are four to seven girls on hand to entertain the customers, to say nothing of my book listing four hundred better-class hookers in the city who can be called in. That is not to say the house is like a sex supermarket; it is more like a boutique where exclusivity and good taste prevail.
Mine is an international establishment, full of birds of different plume. I have blonds, brunets, redheads, Scandinavians, Eurasians, American Indians, Negroes, and several South American girls from Chile, Ecuador, and Argentina. The latter are famous for their big boobs and their love of sex.
With girls like this a man from any corner of the world can walk through my door and be welcomed in his own language. I personally speak English, French, German, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Afrikaans, and some Yiddish.
On entering our calling, the girls usually choose a professional name for themselves, dropping their last name and adopting names like Red Peril, Rainbow, Blondie, Mia Cara, Teardrop; April, May, June; and one girl was even called Shan-da-Lear (as in “swinging from”).