I can’t use a tired stud, so I had to fire him. “If you want to be a stud on Sundays, don’t jerk off, nut,” I told him.

Meanwhile, poor Lionel has paid me $200, for which he doesn’t get a refund, but I promise him a fantastic four-way scene the next day. But this time I get hold of Jonny Starr, the Negro from the umbrella store, who is in no way homosexual but whose cock is gigantic. Jonny will participate free of charge in almost anything as long as he gets the girl in the end.

Next afternoon, on my king-size bed are Lionel, Jonny, my roommate, Corinne, and I, and we’re all waiting to go into the scene when Jonny stalls. Trouble again.

“I’m not going the Hershey Bar road without a rubber,” he insists, and wants to delay the scene while I find one.

There are none available, so I say, “Listen, you’re brown already, so what do you care?” And everybody cracks up, and he agrees to go ahead anyway.

This time Lionel gets a really good scene. While he lies on his side, Corinne is in front of him giving him a blow-job and Jonny is behind him with his big cock going in and out while Lionel is screaming ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, because the first time it always hurts a lot. All the time I am behind Jonny, fingering his asshole and thinking a hard man is good to find.

In the end Lionel is sore but ecstatic, and Jonny screwed both me and Corinne free of charge, and everybody got their money’s worth. However, two days later Lionel called up to tell me that his square country wife is demanding to know why he has to eat his dinner off the mantelpiece.

If a weirdo has a hang-up for group scenes, he will sometimes go to all lengths to pursue them, and can even end up in a very dangerous situation, which is what happened to “Nijinski,” the sickie who digs watching naked girls do ballet.

When I first met Nijinski I was a loner about to go into the madam business, and he was only slightly sick sexually, going with one girl at a time and wanting her to cavort around in front of the mirror before they made love.

By a coincidence I found out he lived in the same building I opened my first house in, and he became a regular customer, getting gradually kinkier. He used to put me through hoops finding non-Caucasian girls, Orientals or Negroes, or anything but straight-up Anglo-Saxon types. Then he started insisting I give him a reduction in the fee because he was a regular customer.

In a way I liked him; he was a brilliant graphic designer who worked with a leading advertising agency, but he would sometimes get on my nerves with his demands.

One Friday night when I had already gone to bed there was a persistent ringing on the doorbell, and I went out and opened it to find Nijinski in the company of two vicious-looking black street whores, and he wanted me to ask them in. “Hey, I want you to get to know my two new girl friends,” he said drunkenly. “They’re very good ballet dancers.”

“If they’re ballet dancers, I’m an astronaut,” I told him. “Good night, I am going back to sleep.”

That night I had sent one of my girls, Elaine, out on a date for the whole night, and expected her back at eight the next morning with the check. I am the one who is always responsible for the check, and I pay the girl whether it bounces or not, but in this case I did not anticipate any difficulty because the client was the respected dean of a big university.

At eight the doorbell rang, and I opened it to find a trembling, semihysterical Elaine standing there white as a sheet.

“There are police and photographers all over the lobby,” she said. “And the elevator is covered in blood.”

I brought her in and gave her a coffee and put on glasses and a wig and went downstairs to investigate. From the doorman I learned it was Nijinski, who was in critical condition in Bellevue Hospital.

On the way back to my apartment I noticed blood smeared all over the walls of the hall, and to this day those marks are still visible.

Some days later, when he was off the Critical List, I decided to visit my friend in the hospital to see how he was and what had happened. He told me that when they got home, he’d asked the girls to disrobe and do some ballet steps for him. But they refused and demanded quick money instead.

“C’mon, we don’t need that bullshit,” they said. “Give us a quick screw and $100.”

Nijinski, being drunk, offered to give them a check because he didn’t have enough money. Now, the rules of the business are that girls don’t accept checks. A street hooker would never consider a check, so when he started writing it out, they got mad and grabbed a bread knife from the kitchen and lunged at him with it.

Together they held him down, stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth, and blindfolded him. They broke a Coke bottle and buried the jagged end in his face, smashed the legs off the coffee table and used them to brutally beat him. Then they kicked his body and his balls and finally stabbed him repeatedly with the bread knife, and today he still has the ugly scars under his heart, on his abdomen, and around his throat.

The girls fled when he passed out, but not before taking with them everything of value they could carry from the apartment.

Mercifully he regained consciousness and managed to drag himself along the hall, and the last thing he remembered was pressing the elevator button with his chin before tumbling into the opening door.

Nijinski is a very subdued man now and leads a very secluded life, but that terrible experience has not cured him of his hang-up. However, he is very careful whom he conducts his erotic ballet sessions with these days, and has definitely changed his taste in “professional” ballerinas. When he phones up now he still specifies two girls, but they must be Anglo-Saxons.

There is one other branch of the sickies or weirdos whom I definitely would prefer never to have to do business with. The ones whose hang-up is filth.

Their scenes include anything from messy meals to urine to feces, to put it bluntly, and even though they are willing to pay a fortune for their scene, I usually turn them down unless they can conduct their repulsive activities someplace other than my house.

One famous television producer wants to pay through the nose for what girls do through the bladder – which is otherwise known as the “golden shower.”

This man was quite straight when I first met him, and I saw him gradually go from wanting the vibrator on his penis to the dildo in his anus, and finally one day asking me to urinate on him.

In time this became obsessive, and one day he called me and said, “Xaviera, I’ve been dreaming about having a dozen pretty girls pee all over me, and I will pay anything you ask if you would arrange it.”

In those days I was not a madam yet, and I had lots of trouble rounding up eight girls who would participate. Then my boyfriend, Larry, had to go over to Alexander’s and buy some plastic and rubber sheets to protect my bed, because the scene was to be held at my place.

The girls had been warned, before they came over, not to go to the bathroom, and were promised a $25 bonus on top of the $50 fee for the one who peed the longest. Just for good measure, I told them to drink a lot of beer before leaving for my place.

The producer arrived slightly crocked and drank a half-bottle of Scotch before he lay naked on the waterproofed bed and the bizarre scene began. All this time the movie projector was showing blue films on the wall, and now I sat on a chair with the stopwatch to time the girls as the first one came in and stood astride him and relieved herself.

Then the second, third, and fourth girls performed. Urine was starting to overflow on my bed and onto the floor, and I was getting fed up with the nauseating spectacle.

By the time the last girl had gone, the place looked like a pigsty with puddles around the floor and pee in the producer’s hair, eyes, and everywhere. A little Puerto Rican girl with a bladder infection won the contest by maintaining a weak dribble for sixty-five seconds.