Heaven's Harlots: My Fifteen Years in a Sex Cult (2 page)

“This really might not be polite to the gentleman over there,” I said. “We hardly know him.”

“Yes, I understand that you do not know him,” the dark-haired man replied in what I now recognized as a Lebanese accent. “And do not worry about his feelings. He will be honored to be at this table. But your friend looks worried. Tell her to come here. No, wait, I will send for both of them.” He called for a waiter and gave him a message.

Within minutes we were all seated together. The ambience at the table was charged with fresh energy, and immediately we were integrated into their party. Sharon was radiant as she sang some of her original songs for our new acquaintances, while I played my usual role as interpreter of the spiritual message behind the words. we were so different in our approach, zealous, so genuinely naive and open, that everyone immediately responded as if we were longtime friends.

The Lebanese man who had called me over was obviously the host. His name was Salim, and at one point the beautiful brunette told me that I should remain beside him because he liked me. She said this as if she were my confidante offering her best advice.

We stayed on till nearly dawn, singing, laughing and dancing, and although our German friend was having a great time, his strength eventually wore out. He was much older than we were, and he gave no indication of desiring further intimacy. Sharon looked relieved to be able to go home. As we were leaving, Salim took my number and told me he would call. Sure enough, when I woke up the next day, already after noon, he had called and left a message with Sharon that he was sending a chauffeur and car to bring me to the Hotel de Paris.

It had happened so quickly that I did not have time to discuss the plans with anyone. Sharon, already awake with her baby, advised me to go. She assured me that she “got a good witness on him,” and that everything would be all right. Within an hour a chauffeur driving a Mercedes-Benz arrived, and I was driven to the hotel. Although I had been there a few times, this was my first encounter upstairs. As I walked through the ornate lobby, I realized that I was socially unprepared, I would be playing with the pros without ever having been an amateur.

Taking the elevator to the floor Salim had indicated, I walked down the wide hallway thinking that, in just the steps between two doors, this corridor covered more square feet than my entire bedroom. I admired the fine inlaid woodwork on the walls and thought I might try to do something like that to the room I was fixing up at that time. My mind definitely was not on the imminent sexual activity I would probably soon experience. Perhaps I had taught myself the stress-relieving technique of not thinking about it right before you do it. I had been well prepped for these types of encounters. I would show physical evidence of love, touching his hands, stroking his back, then perhaps kiss him gently. He would respond by opening up and becoming more intimate. I would then bring in the message about God’s Love, how I was merely a form of God’s immense love for each and every human being, and that if he had never been shown the extent of God’s Love for him, he had it before him now.

That was our group’s basic philosophy, and interjecting any reality into the ethereal picture would taint it in my mind. I kept reality and my mission in separate rooms that had no connecting door, and as I entered Salim’s suite that early afternoon, I was still a twenty-three year-old American girl who was more shamelessly curious than selflessly loving.

Salim had left the door to his suite slightly ajar, and he called for me to come in when I knocked lightly. I did not see him in the spacious blue sitting salon that opened out to a balcony with a view of the casino entrance. Then I heard him call from a darkened room to my right.

“I am in here. Come,” he said in a tone that only partially disguised the commandlike quality of his words. In my mind, I imagined him to be saying,“I am a searching soul, and I need your love.” I entered what appeared to be the master bedroom. The curtains were tightly drawn, and the only light came from an adjacent bathroom. Salim was in bed.

He lay on his stomach with his face toward the pillow.

“Can you give a good massage?” he asked.

It soon became evident that Salim wanted all I could offer, and he wanted it now. I have no recollections of what I thought during the most intimate moments. It is not as if I blacked out or put these experiences into a subconscious holding area, simply, I do not believe that I thought much at all during the act. I followed Salim’s dictates. He asked me to do nothing unusual, and it must have lasted less than ten minutes because I didn’t have time to tell him the message.

As usual, I was concerned that he would hear our message of salvation.

The previous night had offered no opportunity, and things heated up so quickly once I arrived at his hotel suite that I feared the moment had passed. That was becoming all too typical for me as the time between meeting a man and giving him love was becoming continually shorter. I don’t know how other girls in our group felt, but I felt awkward telling him about God and Jesus in the midst of intimate sexual exchanges. For years I never thought about getting any pleasure for myself since I was so truly concerned to “give” God’s message of love.

“I want you to know that God loves you,” I said, walking into the pretty sunlit room,“and that is why I am here.” Salim, standing by the balcony, was already cleaned and dressed in a suit, and I noticed through an open door to the left that there was another bedroom suite attached to this one.

“Yes, I am a Christian Lebanese, you know,” he answered, which seemed to settle the matter, at least for him. “Do you have a way to get home?” he asked, adding,“I need the chauffeur right now.”

“I could take a taxi, butdid not bring money with me.”

“Of course.” He walked over to a highly polished desk by the balcony window, and pulled out some French bills.

“oh, really, I don’t need that much,” I protested.

“Okay, darling. I am going to Zurich tonight. But I will be back in a few days and give you a call. I gave your name and number to my secretary, Kahlil, so he might be calling to set another date. Now, please, go down before me,” he commanded in a businesslike manner.

As I walked to the elevator, I wanted to pull out the bills and see what he had given me, since I thought it was too much for a short taxi ride. But I decided to wait until I was out of the hotel.

At the entrance to the Cafe de Paris, I finally pulled the colorful French bills out of my pocket. There were four 500-franc bills. A hundred francs would have been enough for a taxi. Salim had given me this money for sex! What did he think I was—a prostitute? I gave him my body to show God’s Love, not for money. Maybe he did not understand.

Maybe I should go back to his fancy suite and tell him I did not want his money. I decided to call home first.

“Would you like a table?” the waiter at the Cafe de Paris asked, breaking my thoughts.

I suddenly realized that I must have been standing at the entrance way for quite some time.

“Oh, no, I’m looking for someone,” I replied. I did not want to break a 500-franc note to call home, since I fully intended to give it back to Salim. However, I did not bring even small change with me. I would have to borrow a few francs from someone. I searched the cafe for someone I knew and spotted Jean outside on the patio.

Jean had been one of the first men in Monte Carlo to whom I had given sex. He was about twenty years older than I and divorced. At that time I had been careful to explain that what I was doing was showing God’s Love, but he did not understand. In fact, not many people did. Jean was no longer one of my “fish,” but he had remained a friend.

I walked over to his table and said a few words of greeting in French.

He responded pleasantly and asked me to sit down. We talked casually for a while, but I was anxious to call home before Salim left the hotel. Finally, I just came out and asked Jean to lend me a few francs.

“I have only five-hundred-franc bills,” I explained,“and I don’t want to break them for a phone call.” Immediately, I felt foolish for mentioning the 500-franc bills. I never carried that much money with me, and Jean knew it. He gave me a wink, which I assumed meant he knew what was going on, and he emptied a pocketful of change into my hand.

I thanked him and went down to the ladies’ room where the phones were located.

Timothy, the only man who lived at our home, answered the phone.

Timothy was married to Sharon, and since there were three women in our home, he became our “fisherman”—the one who would give advice on which “fish” to give sex to and which ones were not ready. He was only twenty years old. The women were all about my age, ranging from twenty-three to twenty-five, yet this younger man was considered our authoritative figurehead. I was sure that Sharon had already told him about Salim.

“Timothy, it’s me,” I started excitedly. “Yeah, everything was okay. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. But Timothy, Salim gave me money. Lots of it. He gave me two thousand francs!”

“Why did he do that?”

“He stuck a few bills in my pocket for taxi money. I didn’t know how much it was until I got outside. Listen, Tim, I want to give it back. I feel dirty. I feel like he thinks I do this for money. I mean, I told him it was for God’s Love, and I thought he understood. Timothy, I’m angry. It’s not like when someone buys us groceries or a gift. This is hard cash—you know, filthy lucre.” By now I was barely holding back tears. It all seemed so ugly. I wanted Timothy to help me out of this.

“No, Jeshanah, don’t give it back. We need it, and I think God touched his heart to give you that money. He must have. Salim doesn’t even know us yet, but the Lord must have shown him we needed some financial help at this time.”

“Are you sure, Timothy? I feel really bad about this.”

“Listen, I just got some letters from headquarters, and they say that it’s okay to take money. You haven’t even read the letters yet, but they talk about getting paid for giving God’s Love. Don’t worry about it. You are doing all right.”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Are you sure you are not misinterpreting something?”

“No, really! Wait until you read the letter. It’s heavy! Don’t worry about it. Go get a drink and take a taxi home.”

“But Timothy,” I protested in exasperation,“I feel like a prostitute!”

“Yeah, that’s what you are,” he replied emphatically,“a prostitute for Jesus! And God is our pimp!”

Seven long years before, in 1971, I had joined a religious group called the Children of God in upstate New York. At that time they were radical Christians who lived in a commune and spent most of the day witnessing about Jesus. Starting with the ideal of “From each according to his ability, unto each according to his need,” we included the message of God’s salvation through Jesus, and we believed that we were living true Christian communism. We supported ourselves with donations as we sought to help the drug addicts in New York City by bringing them to our commune and “turning them on to Christ.” Sometimes it worked.

When I first joined, the group was very puritanical with strict rules about separating boys and girls. Now we shared sexually, not only within our group, but also with the lost souls outside. We witnessed by practicing selfsacrificial love including laying down our lives and our bodies. Only the dedicated stayed through this transition from Jesus People to radical “fishers of men.” I was one of those who stayed, convinced that whatever was done for love could not be wrong.

But now, I was doing it for money.

The more I thought, the more confused I became. There is a painful tension in situations caused by behaving in conflict with what one believes. Something has to change, either how one acts, or how one believes. The obvious solution is to stop behaving that way, however, such action is not always possible. I first joined this group to relieve the stress of living a material-centered, competitive life that appeared meaningless to me. For seven years, instead of working for money, I worked for love. I considered some several thousand fellow idealists my spiritual family. Now, I was poised to change again, but instead of changing my behavior, I changed what I believed. In a few months I would accept the concept of “sacred prostitution” and become a person without universally established morals. We were supposed to be revolutionizing the world, and the old morality would have to be replaced. My entire worldview had been slowly changing, and this was the great leap. The words of our leader came to my mind,“If you think, think, think, you’ll sink, sink, sink.” I simply could not understand by thinking. This was a leap of faith. I took it!

By now the sun was setting and the sky had become a harmonious melange of blues and pinks and purples. I stopped rationalizing about right or wrong and let the beauty of the evening envelop me.

A Curiouser and Curiouser World

My father sang to me as I played on the California beach. I remember him singing one of his favorite songs.

“I’ll have a little talk with Jesus/and I’ll tell him all about my troubles.” I guess he had a lot of problems, and so he drank and so he sang. And that’s what I remember most about my father.

His family was from Ireland. They were struck by tragedy when his mother was hit by a car and killed when he was a little boy. The story was told to me by my father when he was drunk, and by my mother when she tried to explain why Daddy always drank. He had let go of his mother’s hand when crossing a busy Philadelphia street. Whether she was hit because she ran after him, or he saved his life by letting go of her hand, I never understood. I only know that my father, and everyone in his family, were alcoholics by the time I came around, on June 27, 1953.

My father, John, was a tall, trim, handsome fellow who had served in World War II. Since he was a very good Linotype machine operator, he could always get a job wherever he went. But he could never hold on to it because of his drinking. Maybe that’s why we moved across the United States and back, and I never went to one school for a whole year until I was in ninth grade. Sometimes we lived in nice suburban houses, and then we would move to a tiny apartment in the inner city.