The next day Takis, in a very suave and civilized manner, asked why we couldn’t lead a three-way relationship – in other words, why can’t two men love one woman at the same time? Often a man has an affair with two girls, he reasoned. Why not vice versa? However, even for me, working out this arrangement was a very weird experience. Larry gave in to it because there was no way out. He knew I would choose Takis if I were forced to pick between them, and he did not want to lose me completely, I guess.
So on Sunday morning we decided to make our strange little ménage à trois start to work. The weather at the beach wasn’t too good that day, and not many people were out. We walked down to a secluded part of the beach, where nobody was in sight, the sun was behind a heavy cloud cover, and we put a towel down on the sand.
I lay in the middle of the big beach towel, and Larry rolled my bikini down a bit and began to play with my clitoris. My head was resting on Takis’ lap, and I could feel his powerful hard-on against my shoulder. He was caressing my breasts and kissing my mouth – I never kiss Larry, as I have mentioned, but Takis has the most sensuous mouth, and a beautiful way of kissing me. Soon I was having a delicious climax, wriggling like crazy all over the two of them, although at the same time I was also conscious that I was being selfish, since the two men had not been able to enjoy the same pleasure all the way.
After this beautiful one-way sex ritual with my two lovers, I began to notice what was going on around me. Several men had pulled their beach chairs closer to us and were looking our way through their sunglasses. It was time to leave. People were getting too curious. We decided to drive back to the city late that afternoon, and I thought it would be nice to give both of them a blow-job on the way back. But they were both too embarrassed to expose themselves in front of each other, so I ended up putting my head on Larry’s lap while he drove, and my toes teased Takis’ prick. Back in New York we all had dinner together, and then Larry had to go home to visit his kids. By then Larry had realized I was in love with Takis, my steady paramour now.
“Good night, Takis. Have a nice evening,” Larry ground out between his teeth when we parted. He gave me a bitter smile.
It was all very depressing, because I really hated to hurt Larry in any way. After all, we had been together for so long. So I have instructed both my lovers that I want no more scenes like that. And as of now, when we are together, we all keep our cool at all times. If I want to make love to Larry, which basically happens only once a week during the weekend, Takis is asleep or else he goes out or we close the door tightly. Nobody shows any emotion.
And now, ironically enough, I find Takis becoming more and more jealous of my other swings just for kicks.
I was invited to the home of New York’s most notorious pimp, a Jewish boy. I didn’t bring either Larry or Takis with me. This pimp, who was written up in a much-discussed two-part story in New York magazine, has a swimming pool in his Greenwich Village townhouse – and weekly orgies. The night I attended one of them, after a refreshing dip in the pool I fucked and sucked five male guests in and around the pool. I also ate a delicious young girl, who somehow had gotten involved in all this, while the other guests looked on from a balcony and cheered. Somehow Takis found out and was outraged. He wouldn’t make love to me for several days. I began to wonder about Takis’ sense of my life. Larry, in the long run, is so much more understanding in spite of his temper.
At least my real lovers do understand one thing about me: when I make love to a regular customer, nothing happens to me, just to my body. I made my men understand this by quoting to them what one of my boyfriends in Holland once used to say as he made love to me – this, of course, was long before I became a prostitute.
“I give you my sperm! I give you my soul!” If he fucked another girl he would say, “I just gave that girl my sperm, I didn’t cheat on you.”
Thus, if you have someone you truly feel close to, I believe that this love is a complete giving and taking of the mind, the soul, and the body. I have to give and receive all three, or there is no relationship. It’s just ships passing in the night.
17. ABE THE BUGGER
Abe the Bugger is the cause of my present less-active days as a New York madam.
Abe’s real identity will be apparent to anyone who has read the papers or watched the television reports on police corruption in New York and my own part in the controversial hearings of the Knapp Commission appointed by Mayor John Lindsay to study corruption in New York City’s government and police department.
Abe is one of those electronic geniuses who can bug anything: apartments, phones, offices, or cars. He was introduced to me by my co-author, Robin Moore, who wanted to have Abe install a tape-recorder system in my bedroom in order to get authenticity for this book.
Abe the Bugger is not an easy person to describe in words. He must be seen to be believed. Think of 190 pounds of fat held in a five-foot-six body. Cover this with a baby-pink wrapping; add two thick – ever moist – lips, and dot with powder-blue eyes – each forever magnified by a couple of Coca-Cola bottle bottoms for glasses – all sitting under three strands of hair assigned the impossible task of covering something that only a loving mother could call a head. Then you might have a feeling for Abe the Bugger.
Perhaps because he thinks his eighteen-month jail sentence a few years ago was unjustified, Abe’s seeming ambition in life is to turn up evidence against crooked political figures and judges. He was constantly assuring me that today he leads a perfectly straight life, saving his pennies and living on what he makes as an investigator. Indeed, he reminded me of nothing more than a sneak of a bad penny, always turning up at the wrong moment.
But of course once Abe was in, he really was in. First, he wired most of my telephones and connected them to a huge tape recorder hidden in my closet. At this moment I had second thoughts. “But I thought that we were going to have one of those small tape recorders that I simply turn on and off!” I told him.
“No, no, no, Robin wants all the sound,” Abe insisted.
Abe the Bugger was Robin’s man. How could I, madam though I may be, ever confuse artistry with art.
“How about the switch?” I pursued. “Listen, I want to be able to turn this thing off.”
“Okay,” he said. “Here is the switch. Press it here and it goes on, and press it there and off it goes. So you see, now you can record any conversation you want, and if you don’t want to record it, you don’t even have to put it on,” he replied with a cherubic smile.
Like Pandora’s box, Abe, once turned on, was evil energy unleashed. “Your phones…”
“What about my phones?” I asked.
“They could be bugged.”
“Oh?”
“I will check them out.” And check them out he did. I have never seen such activity. Electronic gadgets with all sorts of flicking lights and purring noises.
“Aha, it is bugged. You got a bug here.”
“Where?”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry, I know.”
“How? How do you know””
“The… [a spew forth of words I knew to be English but that sounded more like Einstein going mad]…and when it registers on this meter, I know there is a bug.”
“Okay. There is a bug.” I mean, who the hell could argue anyway?
“Aha [click, click, push, pull, click click]…and this one has a penregister.”
“How the hell, never mind… what the hell is a penregister?”
He told me it records all the numbers dialed. I wanted to know what I should do. He quickly explained; there is that smile again. I was to do nothing, he would do it all. He opened up another black box with meters and lights, and after half an hour’s work he sighed in satisfaction. “No more bug. I have just burned it off. It will take them ten days to get a court order to put a new one on. As for the penregister phone, just use it for incoming calls or to call out for shopping or food deliveries or general chitchat talk with friends.”